


From The Shadows

by WindSurfBabe



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26144596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindSurfBabe/pseuds/WindSurfBabe
Summary: Where is the Horse and the Rider? Our kingdom has been cast into the shadows... Are we doomed to disappear, all will of resistance broken by hunger and disease, loyalty bought for a piece of stale bread? Will no one save us?
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Dark Times

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

\- Chapter 1 / Dark Times -

_November 3018_

Dark times are ours. It has been months now since our kingdom has been cast into the shadows. Shadows of treachery or grief, they spare no-one; not even our beloved Théoden King who seems to fade, descending every day deeper and deeper into death. I do not recognize our lord anymore: from healthy and brave he has become unmoving and senile, shriveled on his throne as Gríma, son of Galmod – the Serpent, as we call him – whispers into his ear. What words can turn a man into a wraith so? Even the King's own son is appalled by the change; many times have I have seen him cast incredulous glances to Éowyn, his cousin and our Shield Maiden, as he reported the increasing orc raids on our lands. She held the King's hand, sitting by his feet and trying to ignore Gríma's presence, her eyes full of sorrow. For he is hard to ignore, the Snake of Meduseld: he haunts her every step, every shadow she thought she could trust to keep her secrets.

Yet she still has hope, for her brother Éomer is a noble and brave man, loyal to Théoden King. He can still defend the kingdom, when our lord is ill.

An illness – that is what Gríma and his followers call it. But I call it a lie: no man can decline so quickly, and Théoden is – was – a mighty warrior, strong of body and will. I call it dark magic.

Gríma says that Saruman, the sorcerer that lives in his tower if Isengard, is our ally. But I have heard lord Éomer tell his sister that the orcs raiding the March, stealing our horses and killing the people, bear the mark of a white hand on their armor. But there are few who listened, aside from me. The allegiance to Gríma, no matter how unnatural and vile, is not without advantages.

Where is the Horse and the Rider? Where is Herugrim, whose protection used to be ours? It has been taken from a weakened hand, plucked as toy from an unwitting child… Alas for the splendor of the King!

The orcs have burned the crops; with winter approaching, how will we survive? Those loyal to the Serpent will have a share of the supplies stocked away in Meduseld, but I am wondering what will become of the others. I am not worried for myself: I will find a way. Not many pay attention to me, as of late, and my comings and goings seem to remain unnoticed.

I will stay invisible, despised by the rough, cruel men that have come to the palace, lately. They laugh at me, and mistreat me when they can, but I am otherwise unharmed. Shadows, stealth and cunning shall be precious allies; I will survive this war.

But may Béma help those who, unlike me, will suffer the wrath of the sharp-tongued, self-proclaimed advisor to Théoden King; those who walk around in fear, and go hungry.

Winter is coming. The winds have grown cold, the sky a ceiling of gloomy grey that seems suspended above us all as an ill omen. Will no one help the Rohirrim, our glorious deeds of old forgotten? Are we doomed to fade away, all will of resistance broken by hunger and disease, loyalty bought for a piece of stale bread?

Will no one save us?

From the shadows, I pray for my people, for lady Éowyn, so alone in the dark halls of a castle that used to be full of her laughter; for our lord Éomer, so that he can find the strength to protect our kingdom day after day, his loyalty of steel stronger than that of his sword. I pray for Théodred, who must summon the courage to withstand his father's decisions, given through a clouded mind, whispered by a treacherous tongue.

I pray for all the people of Rohan, those who are dying at the hands of the orcs, and those who are yet to perish for their land. Their deaths protect us, and keep the evil beasts at bay – may they be blessed, in this darkened life and the next.

May the wind carry their cries of agony beyond our borders, and tell our old allies what our pride does not allow us to say; we are in dire need of help. Come! Come, and make haste, lest the noble kingdom of the Horse Lords descends into oblivion.

* * *

My hands ached from the weight of the basket and the sting of the merciless November wind. I stopped for an instant in my slow progression though the empty streets of Edoras to set down the load of firewood I was carrying, and pulled on my sleeves, trying to cover my hands. Cold was not the only threat, I knew this: one attentive look would suffice to see through my simple disguise, and the punishment was far worse than the crime. I sighed inwardly; had I been born a man, I would have had no need for such cunning.

My hands sufficiently hidden, I resumed my journey, shuffling up the path towards Meduseld. I was used to this gait, a mixture of pitiful limping and crooked posture that made me so uninteresting for those around me, though it got tiring and painful by the end of the day to remain so bent. As I approached the doors of the palace, I saw the sentries lounging outside, propped against the wall and wrapped up in their thick cloaks in an attempt to ward off the wind. One of them I knew: Fréalaf, a notorious drunkard and gambler, who had been too happy to join Gríma's hand-picked little army in exchange for more money to lose – money that came directly from the King's treasury, from what I had heard. He was not a danger to me. I had already met him, and though those encounters could hardly be described as pleasant, the man was usually too hungover to notice me walking by, and even less to pay attention to my identity. The other, however, I had never seen, and made sure to accentuate my helpless appearance by hunching my shoulders and looking down.

I approached; scowling, Fréalaf slowly reached out to open the doors, wrapping himself deeper into the cloak and grumbling all the way. As I passed by, I held my breath. My eyes on the floor, the basket clenched in my hands beneath the dirty sleeves, I limped past the sentries. It seemed I had succeeded: they didn't call out, and I was about to enter the hall when a sharp pain erupted in my back and I tumbled forward. "Move!" yelled the younger guard.

Dropping the basket, I reached out to break my fall and, realizing how it would compromise my disguise, pulled my hands back, twisting so to avoid a direct collision between my face and the floor. As a result, I landed awkwardly on my side, the pain adding to the ache in my back. I cried out; but luck was with me, for fear had made my voice hoarse.

"Hurry, hag!" laughed the guard. "We won't hold the door all day until you drag your old ass through!"

I recoiled from the sheer venom of his voice. "Sorry, my Lords…" With trembling hands, I began to gather the spilled wood, watching from the corner of my eye as the heavy doors were slammed behind me.

It had been a close one…

I was still shaking in reaction as I made my way towards the kitchens, keeping to the shadows that now dwelt in the Golden Hall, and avoiding at all cost to took towards the throne. There sat Théoden, our beloved King, who once was so proud and strong, and who now could not even take care of himself for the most basic things. And by his side would be Gríma, whose perceptiveness I feared much more than that of the drunk, lazy guards. Gríma was no fool; he would surely see through my little ruse at once, if he bothered to pay attention to an old servant, and if he thought that my unmasking would amuse him or serve his purposes… I glanced swiftly to the end of the Hall. No, Gríma was not there; instead of black, the person sitting at Théoden's side was clothed in white. Éowyn… I lowered my head again, this time in guilt and shame.

For I have failed my mistress. When I chose my own protection over my duty to my lady, when I lied to protect my identity, I failed Éowyn and left her all alone. Now she has no one to confide in, no one to watch over her sleep. And yet this decision I made easily… _I_ have no royal blood to ward off Gríma's lecherous men. I have no husband, no brother, no father to help me; even my King can not protect me. It is a time of hard choices and broken oaths.

"Hurry up, Magge," said Háma as I walked by. "And in the future, it might be best you took the backdoor…" He cast a disapproving glance towards the entrance of the Hall. "The standards for the King's guards have grown low, of late." His voice was bitter yet resigned: it was well-known that despite his position as Chief of Théoden's guards, he had long since lost his say about who was appointed to the protection of Edoras and its inhabitants. Instead, the men hired by Gríma seemed to squander the King's gold in endless card games and drink his wine all day and night long, while the people of Rohan suffered in silence and still hoped for their King to heal and rise against this injustice.

I nodded and shuffled by. Truth was, this hope had long since died in me; the things I heard and witnessed every day gave me no reason to think that our skies could someday brighten. I had turned bitter before my time, and it suited perfectly my appearance. There was no happy tomorrow; only a succession of darkening days until winter, and if we survived the colds and the hardships it would bring, we would live to see a spring of hard work and little reward.

As I entered the kitchens, I was met by three frightened faces. "It's only Magge," breathed Alfreda, the cook, in relief as she and Rowena resumed their tasks. She dipped an old cloth into a basin and applied it gently to the face of the youngest in the room, Elswide. The girl winced as the damp fabric touched the cut on her lip, her swollen and tear-streaked face telling all too well what had happened. She sat, quivering, on the counter as the two older women cleaned the various cuts and bruises on the skin revealed by her torn clothes.

"Ceolwulf. Again." Rowena scowled when she noticed my glance. "And he will be getting away with it. Again."

"That vicious bastard." Alfreda dabbed fiercely on one of the cuts and Elswide flinched away. "He deserves death for what he did." Elswide said nothing; she seemed to be waiting for the end of Alfreda's tirade and of her ministrations, her once pretty face blank. She looked like a sheep, I thought, sheared and left trembling, and resigned to the fact that it was to happen on a regular basis. We all were sheep, here. We all spoke of wrath and punishment in the relative safety of our rooms, only to hang our heads low and bow once facing the wolves of Meduseld.

For all our anger, we were beginning to accept the changes, slowly forgetting how things used to be. Soon we will be broken.


	2. A Renewed Allegiance

\- Chapter 2 / A Renewed Allegiance -

_February 3019_

A sea of grass: this is what the endless, green fields of Rohan are called, moving with the wind in rolling waves. They murmur softly, they beckon to the rider and the steed; they speak of freedom. But that winter day, the earth was bare and cold; even the wind had died down. If should have whispered of ruin and death, of spilled blood and betrayal, flailing the city mercilessly to fit the agony it endured from within. We had had no warning for what grief was about to become ours.

The stones beneath my feet were slippery, and my balance already compromised by my gait; winter was not kind to pretenders, though it offered the possibility to hide beneath additional layers of clothes. As I cautiously limped towards the palace, doing my usual chores and trying to avoid attention, I had noticed the eerie silence that reigned in the streets of Edoras, usually so windswept at this time of the year. Turning around, I looked to the plain below to see an éored gallop towards the city, the riders urging their horses forward as if their life depended on it. I stepped aside, a morbid curiosity born in my mind to be the first to discover the new test that fate had bestowed upon us. And so I was indeed the first to see our Lord Éomer thunder through the gates, a lifeless body sitting in the saddle in front of him. My heart stopped. Théodred… There could be no mistake, despite the crimson blood caking his noble features; it was our lord and heir who had been mortally wounded.

As the riders flew past me, I cursed under my breath and glanced around. With such grim news, the palace would be in an uproar, but the chaotic squawking and the tears would do our prince little good. Théodred's condition required immediate help. As a healer's daughter, I knew a little about stitches and wounds. As an old woman, I would be listened to: blessed be the reverential obedience to the elders! But no matter how dense the guards were, the sight of an old woman jogging through the courtyard would undoubtedly raise suspicions, so I reigned in my impatience and my anxiety, and hobbled on.

As I neared the bottom of the stone stairs before the palace, the sentries at the doors glanced up lazily from their cards to judge whether the visitor was important enough to stand up: Ceolwulf, who was no threat to me since I appeared too old for his tastes and, sitting opposite of him, the young guard whose cruelty I remembered all too well. I had made my enquiries: Osred was his name. A rider of little years and experience, promoted to such a rank for some black deed that I had no wish to know of. Sighing inwardly, I remembered Háma's advice and headed for the back door.

As I had predicted, chaos reigned in the kitchens and the servants' quarters. Wide-eyed maids and excited children ran around aimlessly like beheaded chickens, wringing their hands in terror and grating on my nerves. I pushed my way through the crowd to Rowena, whom I knew to be more cold-blooded than the rest. "I need hot water," I said, "Fresh cloth, thread and a needle." I glanced to the doors. "I will offer my help, if there is yet anything to be saved…"

Rowena narrowed her eyes. "If they let you near him... It is said Gríma has insisted on a bleeding. Slimy bastard." Still, she did not disappoint: within minutes, she had gathered all I had asked for. "Be careful, Magge," she said, lowering her voice. "Not everyone in Meduseld wants to see Théodred in good health."

I spread my arms in a mockingly friendly gesture. "I am old, ugly and alone, my friend. There is not much they can threaten me with..." With those words I left, but Rowena's concern weighed on my mind. Was I truly looking for trouble? Was I threatening the subterfuge I had worked so hard to create? I held no illusions concerning Gríma's lack of remorse if it came to mistreat an old woman, nor about his pretended concern for Théodred's health. I had to consider the possibility that his ever-plotting mind would come up with the idea of blaming me for Théodred's death, and the sad consequences that it implied for my small, unimportant self.

Shaking my head, I made my way to the royal chambers, thinking that I had finally acquired the ultimate sign of old age to go with my disguise: lunacy. Why was I willing to risk everything for someone who would most probably die soon? If not today, if not from an infected wound, then tomorrow, or in a month, on another battlefield. Fool... Yet the thought of standing idly while the prince fought his battle against death in some suffocating room was unbearable. It was just not right… For a fool he may be, but unlike most, he still fought on, wasting his life for a long-lost cause. Such courage and selflessness I envied him. They were what made him a prince, and me a nobody. Only a woman, a designated victim in the war to come, destined to go quietly.

I clenched my teeth in determination: let come what may. Strength was not the privilege of Kings. I would do what had to be done. I had disappeared once already; if it came to that, I could try to disappear again.

* * *

It had begun five years ago. Already Théoden had begun to listen more to what treacherous advice Gríma would whisper into his ear than to his own kin. The counsellor gained influence, and used it to consolidate his position within Meduseld by hiring men both strong and stupid, traits that so often result in cruelty towards the weaker ones. They drank, gambled and sung all night long, turning into the repulsive, insensitive beasts that they had always been deep inside; taking what they wanted with no regards for the casualties of their fun. We soon learned to avoid them… Soon, but too late for Aelflaed.

She had been my friend, in those happier times when I was still young inside. We used to spend free time together, daydreaming, laughing and mooning over handsome riders… She was beautiful, my Aelflaed. A wonder for the eye of any man; and despite our efforts to remain unnoticed by the new inhabitants of Meduseld, her pretty face had quickly caught the attention of the most reckless and cruel of them.

I will always remember that day, when she was found bloody and broken in the corridor, after having been played with and thrown out of the room. I had hoped for tears, I had prayed for anger, but Aelflaed would not say a word or flinch as her wounds were tended to. She was just empty, as though any will of life had been beaten out of her. And, during a moment of inattention, she had slipped out of the kitchens to hang herself in the stables.

After that, I had thanked the stars that my face should be plain and unremarkable, but discovered that it mattered little. In their drunken state, Gríma's men would chase down anything in skirts and young enough to spread its legs, willingly or by force. Then I promised myself that I would not allow anyone to destroy me as they had destroyed Aelflaed; but this oath implied that I trusted my own strength of mind enough to resist such an aggression, which I did not. So I had come up with another way: who would desire an old woman with a crooked body and half a wit?

I disappeared that day, and Magge had been born. My departure had raised little questioning, since many of the smarter girls had already fled the city, preferring the possibility of a Dunlending or orc attack to a life of terror at the court. A few days later, the old woman that I had become had appeared at the doorstep, and asked for work…

And work I did, slaving away for the swine who called themselves men, cleaning their mess, and occasionally trying to repair what damage they had done, cleaning away the blood and any other trace of them on their victim, offering shelter and switching chores so that they would not be left alone with their aggressor again. Elswide would be watched very closely as well, but her case was different. Ceolwulf was her husband, and there was little we could do to save her from his clutches but pray he got himself killed in a drunken brawl.

We were the watch in the shadows, the silent and helpless guardians of those who fell victim to a war before it even began.

* * *

Théodred did not wince when I started to wash his wounds. He gave no indication that he was still alive; only the faint movement of his chest allowed me to think that I was tending to a living man and not washing a dead body. Still I worked with extreme caution, loath to cause him any more pain and to distress my Lady any more.

Éowyn paced impatiently behind me, her face a mask of stone. She had learned to hide her emotions well, to restrain her impetuous nature lest her feelings be used against those she loved. Now, she appeared calm and composed, if not for the occasional clenching of her fists. She did not trust me with her cousin's life, not that I blamed her. I only trusted a chosen few myself, and not enough to let them know my true identity.

The water in the basin was slowly becoming as dark as the blood that I kept wiping from the Théodred's wounds. But at least they did not bleed so freely anymore, sign that the blades had not been poisoned. I thought sadly that there was no need for it: the deep gashes on the prince's chest and stomach should have sufficed to kill him, and maybe that was yet to happen. My experience in healing did not allow me to judge whether Théodred would survive the night, but the pallor of his skin spoke against it.

As if to echo my thoughts, Éowyn drew closer. "Will he live?" she enquired coolly.

I rinsed the cloth in the basin, weighing my answer. "I hope so, my Lady. But I can not tell."

"Magge, is it?" I could feel her eyes on my back. "Where do you hail from? I do not recall seeing you here before."

"From the Eastfold, my Lady." It was a little lie: my mother came from a small village near the Entwash, and I had often heard her tell me about it.

"Where in the Eastfold?" came the next question, spoken in the same, cold voice.

I smiled beneath my hood at my Lady's distrust. "Near the Mouths of the Entwash, about an hour's ride. A village named Gissing."

"Gissing?" Éowyn narrowed her eyes. "I had a handmaid who came from there…"

I winced. How could I have forgotten that I had once mentioned it to the Lady? Distracted by my task, I had been careless. "Morwrei, yes… I have known her." It felt strange to speak of myself as though I was dead.

"Morwrei…" Éowyn seemed to relax a little; she unclenched her fists and came to stand by Théodred's bed. "So many have left… It feels as though…" She fell silent, maybe wondering if I was trustworthy enough.

"…As though everyone goes their own way to seek their destiny, and you are trapped here to watch them all race by," I finished, expressing my own feelings. It had not been easy for me to accept the loss of the glorious life I had painted myself when I was younger: the love, the family I had desired now seemed a heavy dream, already half-forgotten despite my attempts to remember.

Éowyn sighed softly. "And I keep reaching out, but they move too fast…" She looked at me, her eyes serious as she finally let her guard down. "You understand how I feel… But where does your allegiance lie?"

"It lies with you, my Lady. And with our King, our prince and Lord Éomer your brother." I reached out for the needle and the thread. "It always has, and always will."

"Always is a long time," remarked Éowyn wryly. She watched me start stitching the edges of the wounds together. "Many have sworn such loyalty, only to forsake it for a new master."

I chuckled mirthlessly. "And I am old. Always will be short for me: too short to change my mind."

"Then I am glad to count you as an ally." Éowyn touched my shoulder briefly; I stiffened under her hand and she drew back, looking confused. "I will leave him in your care. I need to speak to my brother." She glanced to the door. "The men outside are still loyal to the King, I believe. You may call for them, should the need arise." We both understood the meaning of her words: should the prince's life be in danger, whether from his wounds or a traitor's blade.

"I shall watch him until you return" I bowed, thinking that Gríma was too cunning to attempt something as brutal as a murder. No, it would be far easier to cut away everyone who still showed loyalty to Théodred and his cousins, to isolate them. And I wondered who would protect me from Gríma's wrath once I walked out of this room.


	3. One Enemy More

\- Chapter 3 / One Enemy More -

News had spread like fire through a field of dry grass: our lord Éomer had been exiled, by order of the King. _By order of Gríma_ , I thought bitterly as I watched the Serpent smile in satisfaction at Théoden King's feet. With Théodred on the verge of death and Éomer gone, he was truly left ruler of Edoras. Even his men sensed it, thick as they were: they walked around, bolder than ever, now openly speaking of our King's upcoming death.

If only to prove them wrong, I redoubled my efforts to save Théodred's life, watching him night and day, only leaving his side when Éowyn came to relieve me. Together we cared for the wounded prince, in the dimly lit room where our hopes seemed to fade, blending with the shadows.

Théodred fought bravely for his life, often sweating in fever or shivering in cold, calling his father's name in his delirium. But our efforts were not enough, I sensed it: the infection that seemed to overcome his strength a little more each day was bound to win if nothing was done to stop it. And so I started searching for remedies.

I knew a woman who lived in the lower parts of Edoras, an old healer who had turned away from the life at court, and now provided herbs for the whores of the city. It was her house that I was leaving, carrying beneath my cloak a remedy against infection. The cold wind seemed to blow right through me and chill my very bones as I hobbled up the street, even more cautious than ever. The small satchel seemed to weigh me down, the small houses around me huddling together as though in a conspiracy; I felt as though every passer-by's eyes were on me. But, discarding my worries, I hurried on.

The back door was now in sight, and I slowed down, my heart picking up its pace in my chest: two men were lounging against the wooden doorframe. They eyed me with undisguised malevolence, and one of them nudged the other, pointing at me. Béma, they were discreet… I felt an uncomfortable, foreboding feeling prick my skin: they looked dangerous, and it was probably no coincidence that they should wait on my usual path. Reluctantly turning around, I headed for the front doors, already dreading the welcome I would get there.

Osred was standing guard once again, watching enviously as his comrade snored, comfortably wrapped up in the second cloak he had probably won at cards. His already foul temper seemed to have grown meaner with the cold as he threw me a disgusted look. "Get out of my sight!" he spat.

I realized that getting through would be harder than I thought. "I need to pass, my Lord," I replied softly, trying to convey my extreme humility and respect with my every gesture.

"And I need some wine and a big-titted whore," he snarled. "I'm not your servant, to open the doors at your every whim. Now move!"

I gritted my teeth, but forced my voice into even more unctuous tones. "My Lord, I appeal to your magnanimity. Please let me…"

I was cut off by a blow to the face that sent me reeling backwards; stumbling, I bent in pain and almost rolled down the stone stairs. After touching my lips, I raised my hand to the light: the fingertips were red with blood. I felt tears sting my eyes at the pain and the shock. Never had I been hit before, not even since Gríma had arrived; I had always managed to keep to the shadows, to remain unnoticed and insignificant, and Osred's reaction had left me feeling small and very, very vulnerable. I saw him raise his hand again, and flinched away.

"What is going on here?"

I almost sobbed in relief when I saw Éowyn approach, as regal and cold as ever. Osred looked annoyed, but composed himself and bowed, but barely, so that the gesture was more an insult than a mark of respect. "My Lady," he drawled.

"You did not answer my question." Éowyn stated icily. Osred narrowed his eyes in defiance.

"The old hag..."

"…Is a subject of mine, and therefore under my protection." Éowyn's voice was steely, but when she looked at me, I saw compassion in her eyes. "And you, as a guard of Meduseld, should know that. It is not worthy of a man to mistreat an old woman. Now, do your duty and let us pass."

Osred opened his mouth, and I almost gasped. _Was he truly going to reply?_ "You are not Queen here!" he sneered. Éowyn blanched, her hand instinctively searching the sword that she once used to carry. Horrified, I wondered briefly how this would end. Would Osred dare strike the Lady, too?

"But our Lady Éowyn is Théoden King's beloved niece, his kin," said a smooth voice. There was no need for me to turn around; anyone living in Meduseld these last months had heard it at least once.

"Lord Gríma." Éowyn seemed to force herself to look at him. Her stance went rigid, as though every fiber of her body screamed in disgust at the proximity of the counsellor.

"My Lady Éowyn…" The Serpent bowed low, and I wondered whether it was, too, an insult. There was no mockery on his face, but he was a man difficult to read: his eyes could speak of loyalty and friendship while his tongue lashed out to reproach and humiliate. His words always seemed wise, though once the listener dissected them he would understand he had been fooled. "I am astonished," he continued softly, "to hear such words of disrespect uttered towards a Lady, and even more so to someone of your quality." He looked at Osred, who glared back. "Be gone" Gríma ordered. "I shall speak to Théoden King, of course, but I believe it is safe to say that you are henceforth banished from the royal guards."

Osred opened his mouth to protest, but caught the Serpent's look and lowered his eyes. I, too, had seen it, and fought the urge to curl up into a ball right on the stone floor. For I understood, in that moment, that Gríma was not a man to be underestimated, and not one to forget the offenses made against him. The pale, sickly appearance disguised something else entirely, just like I hid behind the rags and the years. He was much smarter than me, and I had no doubt that should he bother to look closer, he would understand at once who I truly was.

But luckily for me, Gríma cared little for servants. His eyes never left the Lady Éowyn, greedy and feverish, capturing her every movement, every glimmer of her golden hair. How ironic that I should be thankful for his infatuation with my mistress, while she loathed the mere thought of him…

Osred's spear clattered on the ground when he cast it aside, waking his comrade with a start. His face was contorted with rage as he walked stiffly past Éowyn and Gríma; as he stopped next to me, he leaned to whisper into my ear: "I will remember this, hag. We will meet again."

I shivered at his words, fear racing through my veins once again. I had no need for more enemies… First Gríma – for I did not fool myself, his intervention only served as means to approach Lady Éowyn; had I been alone, he would not have moved to save me from being beaten – and now Osred. For someone who had wanted to keep to oneself and avoid attention, I had certainly failed spectacularly. I sighed: and to think that I had been doing so well…

* * *

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I gently removed the bandages from Théodred's chest and cast them aside. The prince's skin was cold and waxen beneath my hands, and never again would it be warm. The gaping wounds that hadn't had the time to close seemed to taunt me, to remind me of the futility of my efforts and all the sleepless nights I had spent in the dimly lit room, watching a man who was already dead, needlessly prolonging his agony.

I took a clean piece of fabric and plunged it into a basin of warm water that I had brought, and proceeded to wash the prince's body. Théodred's skin seemed as cold as stone in comparison. He had died during our absence, left alone with the shadows that dwelt here. I could only hope that he had gone during his sleep.

The grime and blood were washed away, and one could almost think that Théodred was sleeping, so peaceful he looked. I took the clothes that Éowyn had prepared, and started to dress the prince. I braided his hair, weeping for everything that had been broken and lost: the life of a good man, the hope of a kingdom, and my own dreams who had withered and shrank to become one simple goal: to last the day.

There was little doubt left about what awaited us now: long, cold days of anxious waiting, as Théoden King declined endlessly under Gríma's watchful gaze, drooling on his throne, insensitive to the warmth of Éowyn's hands when she would sit by his feet and beg him to return to his people and his family. Month after month of enduring the increasing boldness of Gríma's men, the beginning of the famine as the crops were left unattended because of the orc and Dunlending attacks… In the end, we would almost hope our King died with the little dignity he still had left, so that the uncertainty would end. And then Saruman would come to claim what was his, and no one would resist him. Although, I thought bitterly, there would be miserable little to claim: he and his minions would bleed the land and suck it dry, eating the supplies we had left, stealing the gold and leaving Rohan to die in poverty and hunger.

And then, man would turn against man for a piece of bread, and the former glory of the Eorlingas would be forgotten. By summer, there would be nothing left but a sea of grass where once was a great kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the books, several days had passed between Théodred's death and Gandalf's arrival to Edoras, and I will be following that line of events for this part of the story.


	4. Deliverance

\- Chapter 4 / Deliverance -

_March 3019_

The stairs of the watchtower were narrow and slippery, and dangerous even for someone young and in good health; for the old woman that I pretended to be, it was an almost impossible task. Yet here I was, attempting the climb, the plate in one hand, the other clutching the rail, and fighting the cold wind that tried to sweep me down. The guard at the top looked at my efforts with sympathy, but did not move to help me. He was not a cruel man, but like everyone in Edoras, he feared Gríma's retribution.

Since Théodred's death, and despite it, the Serpent had declared it my duty to bring food to the sentry on the watchtower. He probably believed that it was only a matter of time until I slipped and fell to my death; to his credit, I believed so as well.

Finally, I managed to make it to the narrow platform that overlooked the city and the plain below. From this vantage point, one could see the Harrowdale almost to its end, and the Snowbourn, whose deep waters flowed slowly, carrying ice from the White Mountains into the valley.

The guard eagerly took the plate from my hands and dug into the food before it became cold. "Thank you, Magge," he mumbled between two spoonfulls, and I nodded distractedly, wrapping my cloak tighter against me and looking beyond the city walls. We rarely received any news from the Mark anymore, and as I watched the windswept grasslands below, I wondered how the other inhabitants lived though these foul times. Between the orcs stealing our horses and the Dunlending raids, did they even know that their prince had perished, and that their King would soon be no more as well?

"Foul cold, today," commented the guard when he handed me back the empty plate. He glanced towards the palace, looking embarrassed. "Listen, I'd help you down, but…"

I waved him off. "Kind of you, my Lord," I shook my head. "but 'tis not your duty. Your duty is to watch the valley, and I wouldn't want you neglecting it for an old woman like me." _Even though the only thing that will walk up this road anytime soon is Saruman's army_ , I thought, _and he has only to wait a little longer, to spend the last chills in his tower, in warmth and comfort. By summer, the gates will be wide open for him_.

A movement down in the valley caught my eye, and I hobbled towards the guardrail to take a better look. "Riders approaching!" yelled the bewildered guard behind me, making me jump in surprise. Indeed, three silhouettes were riding up the path to the city, now galloping between the mounds of the Kings of old. Below, in the streets of Edoras, the few inhabitants who still dared wander outside hurried towards their houses. I, too, had to go. Clutching the rail with all my might, I started to descend.

"Open the gates!" yelled the guard as I limped up the street. I had to warn Éowyn: this could be nothing, just as it could be news from her brother. Either way, she would want to be prepared for the visit.

Cursing the winter frost that still covered the stones beneath my feet, I walked as quickly as fast as my agility and my disguise allowed me to. Still, I heard the riders thunder past me, and swore under my breath. I was not fast enough… When I looked up, I saw the horses halt before the palace. Two of them I recognized: our war steeds, one white and one roan. And the third was a _méaras_! I knew only one that still lived, and my heart leapt with joy in my chest: Gandalf had returned! His last visit had seen him banished, but his presence now gave me hope. Had the time of the deliverance arrived at last?

I neared the steps, and saw that the visitors were in fact in number of four: one whom I once knew as Gandalf the Grey. One was a man dressed like a Ranger, scruffy and tired-looking, but his stance was proud. One was a dwarf, and I could not help but stare; never had I seen any of his race. What he lacked in height, he seemed to compensate by the amount of weapons he carried: I counted at least three deadly-looking axes. The fourth…

He was an elf; this should have been clear to me even as I had watched them approach, from the slenderness of his body, the fairness of his face and the longbow strapped to his back. His hair was long and golden, his ears pointed, just like those who had seen one of the Firstborn had told; his very demeanour was full of grace. Truly, he was wondrous to look at, and my heart constricted in my chest in envy of the one who could call him hers.

And, distracted as I had been by the elf's beauty, I forgot to watch my step, and the traitorous frost used it to my disadvantage: I slipped and, with a small gasp, saw myself fall. The elf moved faster than any warrior I had seen, and caught my wrist before I hit the ground. Still, he could not prevent my knee from colliding with the stones, and my eyes watered in pain. "Are you alright?" he asked, his smooth voice filled with concern.

I nodded. "Many thanks, Master elf," I whispered. "My legs are not what they used to be." The elf smiled and helped me up.

Suddenly, I saw his eyes widen. "Indeed," he drawled and, following his gaze, I found myself staring at his fingers on my wrist, and more precisely at the small patch of pale, unwrinkled skin where his hand had wiped away the grime.

Panicking, I jerked my hand away. "You didn't see anything" I hissed. He frowned in confusion, but I was not about to allow him to figure out what had happened. Gathering my skirts, I curtsied briefly before turning around and heading for the backdoor. I was late, if I wanted to warn Éowyn of Gandalf's arrival. I tried to think that my hastiness had nothing to do with the emotions that had risen in my chest at the elf's contact, at the burning feeling of those long, graceful fingers on my skin, so intense that I almost expected to see a scar where they had curled around my wrist.

* * *

"Uncle!" Éowyn gasped as Théoden King was thrown backwards into his throne by the strength of Gandalf's magic. But the Ranger restrained her, and I saw her agree to wait and see, despite the concern on her face. She seemed to accept the visitors as allies, so I, too, halted, waiting for the outcome and looking around me in astonishment. All around the Hall, Gríma's men lie bleeding from their broken noses, unconscious, or clutching their most sensitive parts, absorbed in their pain. And all of this had been accomplished in a matter of minutes by three weaponless warriors… The dwarf seemed especially satisfied, as he sat on a struggling Gríma.

"Hearken to me! I release you from the spell."

A maniacal laughter filled the Hall in response to the wizard's words, and I turned my eyes back to the throne. "You have no power here!" the King hissed, his pale, veiled eyes now full of malice. I shivered when I realized that it was Saruman who was speaking through our King. Suddenly, the old, weakened man had become the incarnation of our enemy, and Théoden's past glory and his kindness only made such possession all the more twisted and evil. Théoden's rotten teeth were bared in a triumphant snarl.

Gandalf scowled, his white eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "I shall draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound." And he shrugged off his grey cloak. I closed my eyes, momentarily blinded by the white light that radiated from his white clothes. Yet the light was soothing, in a way, and as I stood inside the halo, I felt the power radiating from the wizard. In that instant, I knew that all the hopes we had thought drowned under the blood of our fallen warriors, broken under the blows we had received, had resurfaced. We would stand tall once again, and raise our blades and banners high.

"If I go, Théoden dies!" hissed Saruman through our King's mouth.

"You did not kill me, you will not kill him." Gandalf pointed his staff at Théoden, as the King lunged forward in Saruman's last attempt to retain his power over the body.

"Rohan is mine!"

With a cry, the King was thrown back in his seat.

"Uncle!" Éowyn cried again, freeing herself from the Ranger's grasp to rush up to him. Théoden folded forward on his throne, and would have collapsed had the Lady not supported him by the shoulders. Everyone in the Hall held their breath, as our King looked around in awe, his noble face shedding the many years it had gained during the last months. At last, his gaze fell onto Éowyn.

"I know your face… Éowyn" he whispered, smiling, and I could no longer contain the tears of joy that burned my eyes. Hope dies slowly, but can be rekindled in a heartbeat.

"Gandalf?" Théoden looked at the wizard in incomprehension, maybe trying to remember the echoes of our world he had perceived through his imprisonment inside a decaying body. "Dark have been my dreams of late…"

The wizard smiled knowingly, glancing towards Háma who knelt before the throne, Herugrim in his hands. "Your fingers would remember their old strength better... if they grasped your sword."

I watched, wringing my hands in impatience as our King reached out slowly, as if trying to remember the weight of a weapon in his hand, and curled his strong fingers around the hilt. Herugrim left its sheath with a metallic whisper that echoed solemnly through the Hall, and a fascinated expression appeared on Théoden's face, only to be replaced by anger, as his eyes came to rest on Gríma. The Serpent shook his head, his eyes pleading. "No, my Lord!" he whispered. "I've only ever served you…"

"Your servitude was naught but a heap of lies!" Théoden growled, standing from his throne. Picking up the counsellor by the collar of his richly embroidered robes, the King threw him towards the doors. Gríma cried out in pain as he landed awkwardly on the stone floor. The people stepped aside in disgust on his way, their eyes hungry for vengeance. Théoden advanced upon the Serpent, kicking him in his rage. Gríma howled again, his thin hands raised in front of him for protection. "No, my liege!" he pleaded, his pale eyes full of fear.

"Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!" The King towered above the scrawny man. Again he pulled him up by his clothes, and sent him rolling down the stairs. The crowd watched in silence, and suddenly I felt sad. Gríma had plotted the fall of the Mark, had sold each and every one of us to the enemy, sacrificed our men on battlefields and filled his pockets with gold while half of the land was dying of hunger. But he did not deserve to be put to death for our sole satisfaction. None of the evil he had caused would be thus solved. And if our Théoden King killed Gríma today, defenceless as he was, where would be our nobility and pride then? And that might just be something that Saruman would enjoy: to throw our own evils into our face.

Eager to avoid the sight of the Serpent's punishment, I looked away and met the elf's eyes. They were old and full of grief, as were probably mine. He nodded briefly, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips, but that mimic seemed bitter to me. Maybe he, too, was pained to watch us act with the same cruelty that our tormentors had shown us.

Slightly dazed, as if in a dream, I saw the Ranger pull Théoden away from a cowering Gríma. I saw the counsellor look around him, embracing us all in a look of hatred. Then he flew, stealing a steed from the stables, and even though horse theft is a heavy crime anywhere in the Mark, we let him go. Soon he had disappeared on the horizon, a little black rider carrying away his black lies. But I had the feeling this would not be the last we heard from him.

"Magge." I turned around, and saw Lady Éowyn approach. She looked more proud and radiant than she had in months, finally freed from Gríma's constant presence behind her. She could stop wearing that cold mask she had composed herself. She was free, at last. And so was I. "Magge, go to the kitchens, will you? They must be warned that a meal is to be prepared…"

Gathering my courage, I breathed deeply and spoke, revelling in the sound of my voice for the first time since months. "My Lady… I apologize for this little subterfuge." I raised my hands to my hood and pulled it down, revealing my face. "But Magge has never existed." Éowyn watched me in astonishment. "It was Morwrei all along."


	5. Sorrow And Laughter

\- Chapter 5 / Sorrow And Laughter -

The long, pale locks glimmered dully in the light of a single candle as I slowly unbraided my hair, enjoying the feeling of it streaming unbound and free down my back. It has been confined under the hood, wrenched into tresses for so long now, that I almost expected to see it snake out from the braids out of its own volition. I ran my fingers through the heavy mass, and winced when the encountered tangles that promised a good amount of pain later.

I tugged on the strings that held the cloak and let it fall to the floor in a puddle of muddy fabric. Disgustedly nudging it aside with a foot, I started to remove the old, torn dress I'd been wearing for some time now. It stank, since I had reduced its washing to the strict minimum: smell, I had discovered, was just as powerful a repellent as a grotesque appearance. Once the offensive garment pushed aside as well, I walked to the wooden tub that I had filled with water. From the dark surface, a thin, pale face stared back at me: serious eyes that seemed almost too big for such scrawny features, and unnaturally diluted in colour; chapped lips, dirty cheeks. Sighing, I accepted the face as mine and stepped into the water. It was warm, it was pure and for the first time since long ago I had the opportunity and the time to scrub myself clean.

First I washed my hair, until it was no longer oily and matted; then I proceeded to scrub my skin, until the water turned a murky shade of brown. Then I deemed I was clean enough to be able to face the others – and the elf in particular – without blushing in shame of my appearance, and stepped out.

 _Those clothes shall be burned_ , I thought as I glanced towards the heap on the floor. I pulled on a new dress, struggling to tie the strings that held it together. Before all of this, I could've called Elswide to help me, but not anymore, despite my hopes for things to return to normality. Elswide no longer spoke to me.

When I had arrived to the kitchens, grinning in anticipation of my former friends' surprise and joy, I was met by a deathly silence. The women stared at me, wide-eyed as though they had seen a ghost. My smile faded, and I was starting to worry when Alfreda finally shrieked and lunged forward to embrace me. Rowena grinned and joined her, teasing her elder for the tears she was shedding on my shoulder. I hugged them both with the love and energy that I had held back for too long, and kissed their cheeks, and cried in joy as I recounted what had happened in the Hall, and how we were finally free. When I was finished, I had disentangled myself from the two older women to meet Elswide's eyes.

"You hear me? It is over!" I had laughed, and went to embrace her. I halted when I saw her take a step back, and shake her head.

"I believed you had left," she had whispered.

I had spread my arms, showing her that it was truly me, and that I was not gone as she had thought. "I haven't!" I had said brightly. "I was here all along…"

"…And you told me nothing." Elswide countered, her eyes far too serious for me to keep on smiling.

"Elswide… I had to, please believe me!" I had cried, exasperated. Why could she not see that I had no other choice? That I had barely trusted myself, so to reveal my identity to someone else…

"I could believe you," she had said, "if I had not believed that my friend could not comfort me because she was far away, or maybe even dead. I believed that she had to protect herself, but all this time, Morwrei? All this time, you were here, you saw what he did to me and you said nothing?"

"I was here!" I had protested. "I was here each time, and I took care of you!"

"No!" she spat. " _Magge_ took care of me! Yes, she tended to my wounds… But I could not tell her half of what had happened, Morwrei! I did not trust her like I trusted you! She knew nothing! Nothing!" Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she had advanced upon me, her small hands clenched into fists. "How could you just… leave me like this?"

I had stood there, lost and ashamed, wondering how I had not taken this into consideration in my scheme. If she had called me cruel and twisted I would have accepted it. Truth was, when it had come down to my safety, I had not thought of anything else, and did what I thought I had to do. It had seemed as simple instinct of survival, then. Now, it seemed like heartlessness.

I hung my head low. "I am sorry, Elswide."

"I am sorry too." She looked at me with empty eyes. "So sorry that I thought I could trust you. It would've saved me a lot of worries if I hadn't. And as for worries, I already have my share." With those words she turned around and left, and neither of us made a move to follow her.

"Leave her be" grunted Alfreda, glancing towards the door. "She just needs to…" She shrugged, and went back to her cooking.

But I did not believe the words she had almost said. It was not time that Elswide needed. It was a new youth, the years she should have spent living in married bliss with a husband who loved her, the child who had died under its fathers' blows, and all the children she could now never have. And friends she could trust.

I nodded anyway.

* * *

_An evil death has set forth the noble warrior_

_Of sorrow sing the minstrels of the Golden Hall_

_That noble cousin, who always held me dear_

_Now is held in darkness, behind a grave's cold wall._

Éowyn's song rose above the plain, full of an emotion that seemed my own, as my throat constricted in sorrow at the sight of our prince being carried into his tomb. He had been so handsome, so brave and kind… I tried to imagine that the world was divided into two equal parts of good and evil; the day Théodred died, it had lost some of its brightness, allowing shadows to prevail, if only a little. I wondered whether Gríma's banishment had restored the equilibrium in our part of the world: the sun shone brightly in a clear sky. The wind, that had been cold and biting in the last days, had become warm and carried the fragrances of spring flowers. It was vexing, really, that such a lovely weather beheld such a sorrowful ceremony.

I watched as the tomb was sealed with a stone slab, and bowed my head in a last sign of respect to the prince. But as I glanced up towards the crowd assembled by the mounds, I felt as though it were my tears and my heavy secrets that were locked away. I saw Gandalf standing by the King, his white clothes shining in the sunlight. The Ranger stood to his left, his eyes grave as though Théodred had been a friend, and not only the deceased prince of a kingdom in need.

The ceremony was now over, and I started to make my way back to the palace, feeling slightly selfish for enjoying the sunshine in such a moment. Yet it was undeniable: I felt better than ever since months, daring to stand tall without risking to be discovered, to speak without being hit, to watch without being thought a spy. It was as though all the troubles of the kingdom had been mine, and someone had come to take them off my shoulders. I closed my eyes briefly to feel the warmth of the sun on my face. Yes, now I was free again.

The elf nodded in greeting as I passed him by and I nodded back, slightly confused and – surprisingly – annoyed by the slight smile on his lips. I had endured many a shocked expression since I had discarded my disguise, and hadn't paid any attention to those looks and whispers. Yet _his_ amusement irritated me.

"Tis too grievous a day to smile, Master elf," I said, my voice reproachful.

He shrugged. "If I cried, would that make it happier?"

I narrowed my eyes as I studied him, trying to detect mockery in that melodic voice of his. The elf wasn't smiling anymore, but the ghost of it lingered in his eyes, ready to reappear. He bore my examination with patience, though it must have been very rude in his eyes. I, however, could not help myself: I had never seen another elf.

"No, I suppose not," I finally conceded. "But it doesn't feel right." I suppressed the urge to stomp my feet childishly to emphasize my point.

"And yet you were smiling," he argued, "when you closed your eyes…" He tilted his head to the side, looking at me. "You're smiling now…"

I realized that I had involuntarily grinned at the image of me stomping stubbornly, and forced my face to adopt a serious expression, failing somewhat as the elf burst into laughter.

"You are unpredictable, Morwrei. A smile one moment, a hard stare the next…" He smirked. "Old in the morn, yet young in the evening…"

I looked at him, surprised that he had remembered my name. "I am a woman of many talents, Master elf," I countered, smirking.

He smiled again. Ah, that smile… It made one's heart race and flutter, like a wild dove locked into a cage. No doubt that many a maiden from the palace would be dreaming of those lips, for the nights to come. Would one of them see her wish granted?

"Then may I introduce myself to your illustrious person?" he said, his dark blue eyes twinkling, and I fought the urge to blush like some shy peasant girl. I pushed my chin up, feeling much less dignified than ridiculous.

"You may," I replied, feigning haughtiness.

He bowed with a flourish. "I am Legolas, from the Woodland Realm."

And we simultaneously burst into laughter, oblivious to the scandalized glares of the passers-by.

Suddenly he turned his head abruptly towards the West, sobering. "Aragorn!" he called, and pointed to the horizon. The Ranger looked up, and I followed Legolas' stare. Out there on the plain, a lone horse trudged tiredly towards the city, carrying two riders: children, judging by their size. I gasped, covering my mouth with my hands as one of them swayed in the saddle and plummeted to the ground.

Instantly, a group of men raced towards the stables to get their horses; Legolas hurried to join Aragorn and the King, and I understood with a pang of regret that our small respite had come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Éowyn's song earlier in this chapter is an adapted translation of the original lyrics (credit for the rhymed version goes to Mirach).


	6. Payback

\- Chapter 6 / Payback -

"Oh, the poor dears!" exclaimed Alfreda as she poured stew into two bowls. "How brave of them, to have ridden so far to warn us!" She shook her head sadly. "I hope they see their Mama soon…"

I exchanged a dismayed glance with Rowena. Neither of us was as soft-hearted as our friend, and we both knew that there was very little chance for Freda and Éothain to see their mother again after a Dunlending attack. Those men were savages, sparing no-one, burning, stealing and slaughtering the villagers for a piece of bread or an old shirt. Too long had our riders held them in respect beyond the Isen. Too long had we denied them our plains. The Dunlendings had bided their time, and now that we were weakened, they came to claim what they had been coveting for decades, nothing more than expendable pawns in Saruman's game. More would come, men and orcs, an alliance against nature that had one purpose: to bring the Mark to its knees.

I saw that Rowena had opened her mouth to tell all this to Alfreda, and shook my head. There was no need to crush her hopes, no matter how useless and childish they seemed to us. Maybe they brought her comfort, in the face of the impending war… And who were we to deny her that?

I took the two bowls and left for the Hall, leaving my friends to their discussion. The corridors were quiet and deserted, the previously unmatched cruelty of this attack having left the inhabitants of Meduseld shaken and confused. No-one knew what to think, anymore. I shook my head; had they really expected all our troubles to be over with Gandalf's arrival? The wizard, no matter how powerful, had not come to fight our battles, only to warn us that war was upon us.

As I walked into the Hall, I could not help but glance to where Legolas stood. He did not seem to notice me, absorbed in an argument between Aragorn and Théoden King and, pushing down the small pang of frustration, I headed for the table where the children sat under the dwarf's watchful eye. Setting the bowls in the table in front of them, I leaned to wipe a smudge of dirt off Freda's cheek. "Where's Mama?" the little girl asked, pouting. At a loss about what to say or do, I looked at Éowyn for help; but she was listening to her uncle's arguments, and did not meet my eyes.

"Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not" Aragorn was saying, and I could only agree with him. One had to be blind to not see the smokes of our country burning, as Saruman's minions marched upon Edoras. But I would never speak against our King, and Aragorn's reproachful tone made me feel out of place, an intruder.

Trying to ignore the heated discussion that was taking place, I crouched beside Freda. "Shh. You will see her soon!" I said, lying through my smile and thanking Béma as she nodded, apparently convinced. I looked up to meet the dwarf's dark eyes. He seemed to mock me for my false words.

"When last I looked, Théoden, not Aragorn, was king of Rohan."

I winced at the harsh words, silently praying for appeasement. Lord Aragorn was right, and war was now inevitable. But in these times of hardships and loss, we needed to stand united, and not argue over ranks and titles. But I was a mere servant, what did I know?

I silently stood up, noticing as Éothain shivered in a cold draft. He had lent his sister his cloak, and the rain had soaked his old, worn clothes. "I will bring you a blanket," I muttered, relieved for this excuse to slip away from the growing conflict.

I welcomed the silence of the halls and headed to the linen room for a blanket. Conflicted thoughts swirled in my mind. I felt a surge of loyalty towards Théoden, a desire to fight and defend my country, but the wiser part of me understood the horrors of a war, and sided with the King's arguments of safety. Absorbed into my musings, I did not notice the shadow that had stepped out to block my passage. "Excuse me," I mumbled, trying to get past it, and gasped as a hand shot out to grip my arm.

"We meet again!" hissed Osred into my ear as he pulled me against him, covering my mouth with his hand. His breath stank of ale, and I started to struggle. He ignored my efforts. "You thought I'd forgotten, hadn't you? Hag!" he laughed bitterly, shoving me hard against the wall. My chin collided with stone, and I cried out in pain into his palm. "I should've known… Stupid little whore, I should've discovered your little secret…"

Warm blood trickled down my neck. I wriggled, trying to get my arms free, but he was holding me trapped between himself and the wall; the stones scraped on the skin of my hands, and I felt tears of terror and frustration burn my eyes. Why did it have to be so easy for him? Why could I not break free, even for a second? His very presence in my back made me sick, and sicker yet was the realization of what he had in mind.

Osred cursed into my ear and grabbed a handful of my hair. _No!_ I thought just before he slammed my head into the wall. "Stay still, whore!" I heard him growl through the blinding pain. Everything seemed to swim before my eyes, and I realized that it was me who was swaying on my feet, ready to fall. "You owe me," he hissed angrily. "You owe me money, you slut! And I think I'll just have you pay in kind."

 _No!_ I wanted to scream, but my mind was blurry. I felt vaguely, as though from a distance, that my skirts were being lifted, and Osred's calloused hand on my skin; I thought I would be sick. Was this how Aelflaed had felt, and Elswide, and all the others before and after them? I struggled on, hearing Osred's furious swearing. I refused to believe that all my efforts had been vain.

"Get off her!"

Osred yelped in surprise as he was torn away from me; through my shock and pain, I distinctly heard the sound of bone against stone, and Osred's yelp was replaced by a muffled scream. I tried to steady myself by propping myself against the wall, but my knees buckled beneath my weight, and I crumbled to the ground. Hastily wiping the tears than ran down my cheeks, I fumbled with my dress to make sure I was covered. It was over, I told myself. I was safe… But I seemed to be unable to stop crying and shaking in fright. I could still feel those careless fingers on my thighs, that vile breath on my neck… I crawled away from the commotion and, bending over, vomited on the ground.

As I was wiping my mouth on my sleeve, caring little for decency and hygiene, someone knelt beside me. "Are you unhurt?" inquired Legolas cautiously, reaching out to pull my hair out of my face. "You are not," he said immediately and touched my chin. I hissed in pain and flinched away from his hand.

"It must be stitched up," Legolas commented calmly as he cupped my face to get a better look at the wound.

I glared at him. "Don't touch it!" I hissed. "It hurts!" Despite my gratitude for his intervention, I felt humiliated that he should be the one to witness my moment of weakness.

He looked relieved, and pulled his hand away. My chin burned in pain, but the skin where he had touched me now felt cold.

"Better bring her to a healer, lad," grumbled a voice, and I looked up to see the dwarf looking at me in sympathy. Béma, had he witnessed it all as well? I felt mortified at the thought, and swatted Legolas' arm away as he tried to help me up.

"I am fine!" I snapped, immediately feeling guilty for being so harsh and ungrateful towards my saviours. "Thank you," I added softly. I was not certain that a healer was what I wanted to see, right then. I wished above all to cease feeling Osred's lecherous hands on me, and wash away his stench from my skin. I managed to stand, my legs still wobbly from the shock. Leaning against the wall for support, I saw the Osred's unconscious form sprawled out on the floor. By the looks of it, his nose had been broken, and Gimli stood guard beside him, swinging one of his axes with a blood-chilling nonchalance.

Hatred and disgust rose within me, and I lunged forward to kick the body. "Bastard!" I spat, enjoying the feeling of my foot colliding with his ribs. "Don't you dare touch me again!"

"Morwrei!" Legolas exclaimed. He caught my arm, and spun me around. "Don't," he said, and glanced towards the unconscious man. His eyes darkened in anger. "He deserves a harsher justice, but justice nevertheless." I nodded, suddenly feeling tired and worn, and vaguely ashamed of my behaviour. Had I not condemned the same treatment when it was inflicted to Gríma?

"Are you… Has he…" Legolas hesitated, his grip on my arm loosening as if he was suddenly afraid to touch me. His eyes met mine, and I understood his silent question.

"No… He hadn't had the time." But I realized how close it had been, and felt a surge of gratitude towards Legolas and the dwarf for stopping Osred. "I was lucky you were passing by."

The dwarf smirked and glanced at Legolas, who glared back. "You must see a healer," Legolas repeated, ignoring my thanks. "Come, I will accompany you."

* * *

"He broke his nose? Ha!" Alfreda raised her fist in a gesture of triumph. "Well done, Master elf, well done indeed!"

Rowena raised an eyebrow at her friend's enthusiasm as she tilted my head to the side to get a better look at what she was doing. She had volunteered to stitch up the gash, and despite Legolas' initial determination to remain by my side, she had glared him out of the kitchens. I had wanted Legolas to stay, and although I loved Rowena dearly, I could not help but resent her a little for sending him away. This resulted in my rather reluctant cooperation, as she started to dab the wound with a wet cloth.

"Ouch!" I flinched away as she prodded the tender flesh too forcefully, sending a particularly strong stab of pain down my jaw. "Are you not supposed to make it better?"

"Don't speak!" snapped Rowena sternly. "Unless you want it to scar…"

"Oh, it's so romantic!" Alfreda gushed on.

"What, being almost raped by a drunk bastard?" Rowena snapped. "Just go out there; there'll be plenty of romance for you."

"No!" Alfreda waved her hand. "Being saved by the handsome elf… How brave of him!"

I almost shook my head in dismay, but caught Rowena's warning glance and refrained. I wanted to tell her that Rowena was right, and that there had been little sentiment in Legolas' motives. I had heard that acts of intimacy equalled marriage for the elves, and were therefore sacred. Legolas would have done the same for any maiden, and with the same seething rage that had flashed in his eyes when he had glanced at Osred.

But how sweet would it be, to imagine for an instant that he had saved me because it was, well, me… I closed my eyes briefly, chasing the silly thought away. There was nothing to dream of; no romance between us. Only the sympathy and the wary respect from one survivor to another.


	7. The Truth

\- Chapter 7 / The Truth -

"By order of the king, the city must empty! We make for the refuge of Helm's Deep. Do not burden yourself with treasures, take only what provisions you need!" Háma had yelled out, riding through the streets to warn the inhabitants of Edoras about the imminent attack. The people had listened, clutching their children and then started giving out brisk orders to gather their meager possessions. I, too, packed for the journey, though the preparations were quick: I possessed almost nothing, save for a dress or two and an old shawl that used to be pretty, but that now was torn in places. There was nothing that I would mind losing, nothing that I would cling to. The fire that had claimed both my parents and our home had left me with nothing but memories, and even those had become confused over the years.

No, it was Edoras itself that I would miss: the narrow, cobble stoned streets, the small houses with their thatched roofs that glinted in the sun like gold, the walks from the palace to the wooden watchtower to look into the plain below and marvel at the view. And of course the splendor of Medulseld, the Hall of Kings. Who would walk beneath the carved beams, if we lost this war? Who would sit on the throne? Saruman? Gríma?

Shaking my head free of such gloomy images, I went to the small room I once shared with Aelflaed and opened the old trunk in the corner. Aelflaed's possessions had long since been removed to be restored to her sister, and my meagre possessions lay sadly at the bottom, dwarfed by all the remaining free space. Bittersweet memories rose within my mind: her and I, sitting on that trunk in front of the fire, braiding each other's hair and dreaming of the love we would find someday; but Aelflaed had found little romance here, only humiliation and a desperate end.

I pulled out the dresses and folded them carefully, noticing how the fabric had become worn over the years. The green one's hem needed repairing, I noted absently before reaching for the shawl. As I started pulling it out, something clattered on the bottom on the trunk. Intrigued, I peered inside.

A comb laid there, one or two of its teeth broken from years of use, the small simbelmynë engraved in the wood still visible. I reached for it with a trembling hand, remembering that it once belonged to my friend. Aelflaed, ever present in my mind, never forgotten, forever loved. Still I missed her, wondering when the pain would cease, and whether it would at all.

I ran my fingers down the polished surface, remembering the feeling of the comb in my hand. The memory was so alive that a lump formed in my throat, painful and smothering. It felt so unfair, so heartbreakingly sad that she should have been the one to go first. We used to speak of growing old together, and suddenly I had been left alone in a world much harsher than I ever realized it to be…

Pushing down the tears, I put the comb on top of the dresses and wrapped my belongings into the shawl. I hadn't shed a tear when Aelflaed had died, for there was no time to: I had to think about myself. Time, I lacked it now as well. Someday, I would allow myself to cry for my Aelflaed, for all the years that had been stolen from us and all those that I had aged during the last few months. But not now.

* * *

The grey skies seemed to loom above us, watching our exile, as the people of Edoras trickled out of the city and into the plain, down the road that wound through the mountains and to the valley of Helm's Deep. Clutching my bundle, I walked out of the city gates, trudging behind the overloaded cart of one of the families who had refused to leave their possessions behind, taking everything save the house itself. The cart rocked precariously on its wheels, its contents swaying with every pothole, and soon we were being distanced by the people ahead.

I saw Háma halt his horse beside the family.

"Hengist!" he called out to the elder, "the King said provisions only!"

The old man scowled at the rider from his place on the cart, crossing his arms obstinately. "Took me a life to gather all this!" he screeched. "I won't leave it to the Dunlendings to take!" He pointed his cane at Háma. "You can't force me to leave my possessions!"

Háma shrugged, unimpressed. "Indeed, and I have more pressing matters to do. But hear this: your cart will not go into the Hornburg; there is not enough space. So either you leave it now, or remain before the walls to guard it from the orcs!" And he turned his horse around, making his way back to Théoden.

Hengist blanched. "You insolent boy!" he shrieked after him, clenching his scrawny fists in helpless rage and looking around for support. His family, gathered beside the cart, placidly stared back.

"Get me down, you lot!" he yelled finally, waving his cane around. "Move!" His children hurried to obey, ducking to avoid the cane.

Someone chuckled beside me. "No doubt that orcs would flee in terror before his wrath," said Legolas' melodic voice.

I turned around and smiled. "Hengist was a ferocious warrior, in his time…"

"…And ferocious he remained!" Legolas agreed.

We walked past the cart. I noticed that he was carrying his bow in his hands, ready to use it, and shivered. Did he expect an attack?

"Are you cold?" he asked quietly and reached for the clasp of his cloak.

"No." I shook my head, regretting a little that my conscience hadn't allowed me to lie. It would have been pleasant to wear something that belonged to him, even for a short while, to feel his warmth on the fabric... I shook my head, chiding myself for such a silly desire. "I was wondering whether we were to expect an attack during our journey." I nodded towards his bow.

He followed my gaze and shrugged. "I learned that one is never too cautious," he replied, his expression guarded. "It is a long road, and troubled times."

I looked at him attentively, wondering how old he was. Elves did not wear their age on their face as we humans did; despite his youthful appearance, I had the feeling that Legolas had fought many a battle, and seen darkness beyond my strangest nightmares. Many years of wariness lurked in those blue eyes of his.

However, I also asked myself whether he was telling me the whole truth: dangerous times or not, his demeanour was too stiff to be simply wary. He reminded me of one of my father's stallions: teeth not yet bared but the whole body poised in expectancy, all muscle and speed. I was certain that his arrow would be notched before the sound of danger even reached our ranks.

"Are you sparing me, Master elf?" I asked wryly. "I am not naïve enough to believe that Saruman would let such a chance to strike pass; here, in the open, with nowhere for us to hide..."

Legolas looked at me in surprise. "Indeed," he nodded, "I should know that you are not a woman to be caught unawares."

I shrugged, looking away; Osred's attack _had_ caught me off-guard, and it stung. I had been brutally reminded that I was not, after all, as cautious as I liked to believe myself to be. "I don't like surprises," I said eventually.

He smiled and raised his bow. "Neither do I."

"And you didn't answer my question. What do you fear?" I shot him a sharp glance, but my determination faltered as he stared back. Maybe I had overstepped the borders of what was allowed between us? I bit my tongue, cursing it for its brutality. Truth was, I feared to lose Legolas' friendship, if our young relationship could be called thus. He had only to quicken his step, and leave me behind. I would not dare follow.

Instead, Legolas smirked. "Right now,: orcs. Saruman breeds them by thousands for such occasions. Wargs, if we are unlucky." His eyes met mine, slightly mocking; he was challenging me to remain as fearless and bold now that I knew what could come.

I shuddered, regretting my question. Now, I felt as if the smallest point on the horizon threatened to jump closer and grow into something dreadful. "Wargs?" I repeated out of some morbid curiosity.

Legolas nodded grimly. "Aye. Foul beasts, cruel by nature and probably kept hungry for days."

I gulped and, noticing my unease, he laid a light hand on my shoulder. "If this should happen," he said quietly, all trace of laughter gone from his eyes, "run. Run, and do not look back. It would be a waste of precious time."

I nodded. How I wished now I had not asked...

"Where is your family?" asked Legolas, dropping his hand from my shoulder; I felt cold again, but not because of the grief his question evoked. I hoped for the warmth of his touch to linger, but the careless wind swept it away.

"They died when I was five winters old," I replied. "A fire."

"I am sorry." Legolas studied my face. "Forgive my question."

I shrugged his apology away. "There is naught to forgive, Legolas," I said, relishing the feeling of his name on my tongue. "It happened years ago. I miss them no longer." I glanced at his handsome face, grave despite his apologetic smile. "And yours? They must await your return with great impatience?"

He chuckled. "Ada – father – will be furious with me when I return. He never meant for me to join this quest. I will not hear the end of it for years, I am certain."

I nodded, thinking about the many, many things that we had not meant to be, and that had happened anyway. How often had I wanted to freeze time, to live over and over again the happiest of my days! But ready or not, we had all fallen into darkness. Now we had to play with what cards fate had dealt.

We walked in companionable silence for a while, and I was grateful for Legolas' presence. All of my friends walked or rode with their husbands or families, and I had no desire to intrude. All felt now that the respite would not last, and tried to enjoy the time left with their beloved ones. All save me.

Our men prepared for war. I had seen Alfreda bid her husband farewell, tears in her eyes as he rode away with Théoden King's guard. I knew not the fear she felt for him, for the only person I had loved so was now dead, and I needn't worry about her fate anymore. Did this make me privileged? Should I feel grateful, in such dangerous times, for being alone, my heart safe from grief within my chest?

I glanced at Legolas. No, my heart was safe no longer. I would tremble now, along with the others, and pray for his return, even if it was to watch him go and forget me once the war was over.


	8. Fear

\- Chapter 8 / Fear -

Though expecting an attack after Legolas' words of warning, I had not been prepared to see what I saw, nor witness what I have witnessed that day. Until then, danger had remained something that loomed over my head day after day, unchanging and ever present. An uneasy feeling in the back of my mind that I could outsmart and avoid. But that day, danger had taken a whole new meaning. _Fear_. Blind, paralyzing fear. A cold, that gripped my body, that glued my tongue to my palate and left me placidly waiting for the blow.

We had been walking for hours; men and women of Edoras, young and old trudging side by side in a slow, endless procession. Hours had trickled by with each step, and I had ended up losing the notion of time. The dull ache in my feet had become a constant, just like Legolas' silent presence by my side.

Suddenly, a cry rang somewhere ahead and, in a heartbeat, Legolas was gone. I saw him run towards the commotion forming at the head of the procession; but there were too many people between us for me to see what was going on, and soon he had disappeared out of my sight. Straining my eyes, I had tried to distinguish something behind the crowd that massed between me and him, but the news reached me as a cry: "Wargs!"

And chaos broke out all around. People scattered like chickens, running, screaming in horror and dragging their children along in their hurry to save themselves. Yet I had remained frozen, looking at the scene with detachment. Strangely, I was surprised that Legolas' fears had come true. Should I run as well? I picked up my skirts, the better to run on the rain-slicked grass, and took a step towards the lower grounds.

And then I saw the first beasts appear: enormous and ugly, they poured over the hills like hairy roaches. Orcs rode them, armed with crude swords. One of them pulled on the reins, halting the beast; it roared, slaver running down its sharp teeth, and leaped forward again.

We stood no chance. _I_ stood no chance, not with my laughable human slowness. My heart sank in my chest. I would die here, in the mud of a nameless field. A warg would feast on me while I felt its teeth tear me apart, rip my flesh bite after bite…

A hand gripped my arm and spun me around. I found myself facing Legolas, his handsome face contorted in anger. "What did I tell you?" he hissed, his eyes blazing. He released me to nock an arrow, then fired. I watched as the arrow embedded itself into the closest warg's eye. The beast's legs gave under its weight and, carried away by its speed, it rolled to the ground, throwing its rider.

"Do not think. Run!" Legolas snarled, not looking at me. His fingers were already drawing the string again. "Run, Morwrei!"

And I ran, stumbling towards the other refugees and forbidding myself a glance back. I ran until I was out of breath and my lungs burned, fleeing past the slower members of the procession. I helped no-one; I only listened to Legolas' voice telling me to save myself and not to look back. But their cries filled my ears, the sound of torn fabric and flesh as the wargs hunted them down painting all too vividly the carnage behind me. The beasts growled and grunted; jaws munching on their prey with a sickening sound that would remain engraved in my mind forever. _This is a feast_ _for the wolves of Isengard, and we are only meat_.

But I was saved. Éowyn's voice cut through the chaos, instructing her people to reach the lower grounds and clear the battlefield for the men. We obeyed, leaving our fallen behind.

Éowyn nodded in acknowledgment when she saw me. "Morwrei, lead them," she ordered. "I will see that the last ones follow."

I turned around one last time to see the army of Edoras clash against Saruman's hordes. The wargs could awaken one's deepest, most primal fears, and I wished our warriors courage. And I tried to distinguish, amongst the golden hair of the riders of the Mark, the pale locks of one sylvan elf.

* * *

The rest of the journey to the Hornburg seemed to pass even slower, with the sounds of the battle echoing down the valley. So near, so very near was danger, breathing down our necks as we hurried to the relative safety of the stone walls. Yet the people around me seemed relieved to enter the stronghold, scattering in search of their loved ones, patting each other on the back and even smiling. They were happy to be alive, I realized. Despite the loss and the grief, and the gruesome attack we had witnessed, they were happy.

Then why wasn't I?

It was when an old man with a cart roughly shoved me aside to get into the passage leading to the caverns beneath the fort that I realized that I had been left alone. Éowyn had gone to take up her duties, and all of my few friends had remained with their families. Only I was standing there, not knowing where to go or what to do.

And I realized that Elswide had been right, in a way. During her short existence, Magge had lived, made friends and enemies, while I had retreated into the shadows. Fear had kept me from revealing anything personal, any thought or emotion that was truly mine. I had been so careful that the darker times had passed like a bad puppet show; unreal, distant. Stripping myself of any tie that could prove dangerous or compromising, I had become completely detached from anything or anyone; and now that I was free to cry and laugh again, I found myself with no-one to share it with… A stranger in my own home.

Shivering in the cold draft that wafted through the open gates, I wrapped my arms around me: I could feel myself, therefore I still existed. I was still a part of this world, despite the lengths I had gone to in order to disappear. But a part of me, the colder and more realistic voice inside whispered insidiously that, other than the conviction of my own existence, I had little proof that I still belonged there. No-one was looking for me, no-one needed me. So very few people cared about me now that with them gone – and it could happen so easily, with a war raging around us – I would be left with no ties at all.

* * *

"The riders are returning! The King is returning!" echoed the cries of joy and relief. The crowd flowed back to the gates, people watching hungrily as the warriors rode beneath the stone arch. Their eyes darted from face to face, trying to recognize a familiar face under the mixture of human and orc blood. Then came the relief, or the horror.

Prompted by the trickle of people gathering at the gates, I went to stand at the entrance as well, watching as the men halted in the small courtyard, dismounting quickly and leading their horses away in order to clear space for the ones still arriving. They hugged their families briefly, but their faces were grim and their eyes dark. They had seen a sliver of what the future had in store for us; and that glimpse had taken away what hope they had left.

I saw Éowyn push her way through the crowd to her uncle; but her eyes searched the arriving riders, and I knew she was looking for someone else. I had seen eyes follow the ranger, Aragorn. I had seen her bring him stew, and linger, searching for an excuse to start a conversation and stay by his side a while longer. I knew how she felt: had Legolas not sought me out, I would have thought of doing the same, and come up with any foolish excuse to speak to him.

Legolas rode through the gates, Gimli sitting behind him, and I breathed in relief: he was alive, and safe – for now, at least. He even seemed uninjured, as he slid down from his horse's back. A smile tugged on the corners of my mouth. Legolas had returned to me. He looked around, scanning the crowd for someone… Me? My heart leapt in my chest at the prospect, and I edged towards him. And just then our eyes met.

I stumbled, suddenly hesitant to go meet him, scared by the searing pain that I saw in those eyes. That was not simple grief, or the loss of a friend and brother that raged inside him – that was pure despair, as one looks around to see naught but darkness and flame where a fortress should stand, and a heap of rotting bodies instead of a nation. I understood his pain – after all, I had lost a friend too. But even though I did not understand his fear, I felt it; and it terrified me.

"Where is Lord Aragorn?" I heard Éowyn ask quietly. "Where is he?"

"He has fallen," I whispered, not taking my eyes away from Legolas, who nodded. "We are doomed."

Legolas closed his eyes briefly, shattering our connection, and I felt released from some dark spell. Shaking his head, he glanced at me one last time, then turned away, his tall form disappearing in the crowd. Still shivering from that nameless fear, I watched him leave, a battle raging within me. Should I seek him out, as he had sought me out? Or should I leave him alone? After all, our relationship could only tentatively be described as friendship, still so very young and fragile… Young, as I appeared probably in his immortal eyes, and as I would ever be, even in my old days – should I live long enough to see them.


	9. Ready To Fall

\- Chapter 9 / Ready To Fall -

The heavy gates closed with a snap as the last of the refugees crossed the threshold of the Hornburg. Soon the courtyard emptied, and only soldiers patrolled the small space. They looked weary and fearful, and I understood their worry all too well. For the thunder of thousands of footsteps echoed down the valley, growing louder as the hours passed; the very stones of the fortress seemed to shake, the ground moaned in pain beneath that army. And if we could not see our enemy yet, we knew that it came unnumbered.

These were not starved, angry men. These were not filthy Dunlendings; they came not for our lands or our crops. The army that would soon mass beneath our walls existed for one purpose: destroy the land of Rohan completely, wipe out every man, woman and child of our blood, so that there would be no-one left to pick up a weapon in the years to come.

I could hear one of the royal guards calling for the women and children, instructing them to take shelter in the Glittering Caves; but I lingered on the ramparts. Pulling the shawl tighter around my shoulders, I looked once again to the end of the valley. There, before the setting sun, rose a cloud of dust. _Death walks swiftly_ , I mused.

"They will be here by nightfall."

I jumped at Legolas' voice beside me, and turned towards him. He paid no attention to my surprise; his eyes were fixed on the horizon, his hands resting on the stone rampart. To an onlooker he would have seemed relaxed, as though our conversation was casual and friendly.

"Ten thousand are coming," he said quietly. "At least." He turned to look at me. "Our hope is gone, Morwrei."

I could see that he was telling the truth, as I had asked him to; but to hear him speak of our doom with such certainty was terrifying. Yet there was no fear in his eyes, only a quiet impatience that death should leave him waiting a few hours more, like an unpleasant task he had to achieve and would rather be over with.

And I did not question how he knew it; but to stand beside him in silence made me feel uneasy.

"I am sorry… For your friend," I muttered, and immediately regretted it – for even though Aragorn's death saddened me, I remembered all too well how these condolences always sounded false from the lips of those who didn't know the fallen.

Legolas turned away and closed his eyes for a few seconds. "It was not his time," he whispered through his teeth, his calm façade cracking. "Not his land, not his people… Not his quest." His pale hands gripped the stone rampart.

I was not offended by his words: after all, we owed too much to him and his friends to demand that they took any form of pride from their help. They had already done enough for Rohan; they could have left us to fight our own battles. But here he was, an elf from a distant kingdom, ready to die for a lost cause. My heart constricted in empathy with his pain, echoing my own grief, and I wondered at his courage and determination. Legolas would have had centuries ahead of him… Did thousands of years of living make the idea of death more acceptable? Or was there really such a thing as a higher ideal, a cause worth sacrificing one's future for? I could not tell; my cause was my own survival, and it had been long since I had looked beyond that only goal. But the idea of dying for something worthy suddenly seemed strangely appealing, almost romantic.

I bit back a bitter smile as I forced my mind back to the harsh reality. From what I had witnessed, there was little glory or beauty in death.

"I had hoped to die in my forest," Legolas muttered. "To see it one last time before my eyes closed."

"I had hoped to die in a bed, of old age, all shrivelled up and completely senile," I retorted.

His face lit up as he smiled briefly, still facing the horizon. "Ai, no matter how long I could have lived I am certain I would never see your mind so dulled. Even old and shrivelled up you would remain as cunning as ever."

"And turn into one of those manipulative old creatures who terrify everyone with their plotting and gossiping?" I shook my head, thinking over that unattractive – and now unattainable – future. "Maybe it is better this way," I added softly.

Legolas' smile vanished as he turned to look at me. "Yet there is still a chance for you," he said quietly. "I heard there is a passage through the mountain, to safety. I want you to take it."

"We will not go far," I shrugged. Somehow, his indifference seemed to have seeped into me. I felt strangely calm and detached, almost at peace for the very first time since long.

"But you will have a chance," he insisted. His eyes flashed with a feverish hope. "Yes, you should have a chance. We will defend the hold to our last breath. This should give you enough time…"

I smiled sadly, shaking my head at his sudden surge of optimism. "And where will I go?" I said. "When you fall, when Rohan falls, I will be left with no home or family."

Legolas scoffed. "From the little I know about you, Morwrei, I doubt not that you will survive." He sobered as I cocked a cynical eyebrow. "Please."

I flinched when I felt his hand touch mine; his skin was warm, a strong contrast against the rising cold of the evening. "Please, go. Save yourself." His eyes bore into mine with heart-stopping intensity. "I want you to live."

My hand was trapped in his strong yet gentle grasp; I couldn't have pulled away, even if I had wanted to. I felt light-headed, like after a run or a strong wine. All my thoughts were focused on the sensation of his hand on mine.

"I want you to live… So that you remember what happened to me."

The cool touch of metal on my skin made me look down. There, on my middle finger was a heavy golden signet ring, engraved with a delicate leaf.

I brutally pulled my fingers from his grasp. "What is this?" I frowned, confused, and started to pull the ring off. "I cannot…"

"You can, and you will." Legolas captured my hands in his and looked into my face. His jaw was set, his eyes flashing. "I am sorry if I offended you, but you must understand." He squeezed my hands in urgency, his strength transpiring in the gesture, and I refrained from wincing in pain as the edge of the ring bit into my skin. "Keep it as something to help you remember me by," he whispered. His voice wavered as he drew back, his hands covering mine for an instant longer before he pulled them away. "As a proof. When this is over, I need you to find my father. Seek King Thranduil of Mirkwood. Give him this ring… Tell him that I died with honour."

A gift so magnificent would have delighted me if not forced by desperation. I would have refused – let another serve as the messenger of a son's doom; but I could not utter a word, and so the ring remained on my finger, heavy and ill-boding. I realized that I was witnessing a rare moment, a crack in Legolas' strong, confident façade; but I hardly felt privileged. No, seeing him so vulnerable scared me much more than his certainty about our upcoming death.

I opened my mouth to speak, but as a cry rose from the gates, Legolas turned away abruptly. As he ran down the stairs to disappear beneath the ramparts, I scowled, suspecting that he had caught this excuse to disappear before I could protest at the role he had laid on my shoulders. Of all people, why had he chosen me?!

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, but in vain. I was confused and embarrassed, as though I had witnessed something that I should not have; and I dreaded what the future would bring, should Legolas fall. Of course, I could always keep the ring and not say a word; no promise had been made, no witnesses had heard his request. No-one would know… But that idea weighed heavier on my conscience than I had imagined. Legolas was ready to die to protect us – to protect me. I owed him this, and the thought made me uncomfortable. It had been too long since I had depended on someone, or been trusted in turn. Legolas knew about my betrayals and acts of cowardice, and still he had entrusted me with his last wish. Many in his place would have thought twice about it, but not he. In a way, it was a honour and a comfort, to be seen as worthy of trust once again.

I turned the ring toward my palm and clenched my fist. So be it. Mirkwood was as good a destination as any other place, for a person who belonged nowhere.

Trudging down the stairs, I almost ran into the crowd that was gathering again around the entrance. I looked up, and gaped in shock as Legolas scooped a weary-looking Aragorn into a crushing embrace. This could not be…! Instinctively, I searched the crowd for Éowyn, and indeed there she was, her face shining with incredulous joy, and hope renewed in her eyes. And she was not the only one changed by Aragorn's return. Legolas grinned as he pulled away, playfully patting his friend on the shoulder. Where was the solemn, desperate elf who had all but begged me to take his remains to his father? Where was the resigned warrior? My fingers clenched on the ring. Elves! Strange, fleeting creatures were they indeed, and it was one of them who had called me inconstant! Well, he could keep his tricks and tokens. I would not play these confusing games; they were beyond my wit or understanding.

As though Legolas had heard me think he looked up, and for a second his smile lost some of its brightness, his eyes flickered back into seriousness; and all my doubts about his sincerity faded. He nodded, and hurried to follow Aragorn into the hold, leaving me standing there in confusion once again.

"My Lady?"

I turned around to see a guard watching me hesitantly. "My Lady, you should go into the Caves now."

I looked around; indeed, the courtyard was empty save for the few men who stood guard on the ramparts. So I followed him, casting one last look towards the sunlight and the freedom before the sound of lamentations and worried whispers echoing off the walls of the immense cavern hit me. It was as though I had stepped into another world, one of chaos and despair. All around me were weeping women and terrified children, wailing with all the might of their little lungs. Where was the reassurance of the hiding place? Where was the sense of safety? All I saw was fear; the air was thick with it. And as the heavy doors closed on me, I understood that the hardest part was the ignorance and the wait. It would be a long, painful night, and no matter what dawn would bring, those locked inside with me were already defeated.


	10. Lost To The World

\- Chapter 10 / Lost To The World -

The cold sand beneath my feet was shifting and unstable as I tried to find my way through the cave. The lights were dim and flickering, not reaching the ceilings that remained concealed in darkness, and I had to squint to distinguish my way through lest I wanted to run into the refugees that massed around me. There was little I knew about the Glittering Caves, save for the fact that they wound deep under the mountains; deeper than any now living man could know. They had been used in the past as a refuge and an escape route, but the road to the other side was long, and unprotected. Who knew what could lurk in the deepest caverns?

As I crossed the cave, I saw guards of the palace walking amongst the people, looking for arms able to carry a weapon. Sons were torn from their mothers, husbands and fathers who had thought never to face a foe again were called back to their duty. And the women's laments filled the immensity of the cavern. I watched them part with their loved ones and seek comfort in their friends' arms, and thought that it was the wrong people who were being picked to fight. Those men had families to take care of, duties beside their oath to their King. But I, and the likes of me, would not be missed. Without ties and responsibilities, we were free to face death and embrace it.

But then I saw the grim determination beneath the horror, the strength of their grasp on those rusty swords, and understood that perhaps it was better this way. For I had nothing to lose in this war save my life, and therefore nothing worth fighting for; unlike the soldiers of fortune who would lay down their lives for their families to survive.

The heavy iron hinges screamed in protest as the door closed behind me, the last rays of sunlight reaching out through the opening… And then they, too, vanished, to be replaced by the oppressing twilight of the Caves. I walked on, until I found an empty spot. There I set the bundle that contained my possessions on the ground and sat down.

All around me, people were comforting each other, offering their love and strength, and I felt like an intruder once again. Watching them felt wrong, as though I was spying on something that was forbidden to me, and neither did I like the sensation of their eyes on me, questioning my solitude. I wrapped my shawl around me and I buried my face into the thick wool. It was childish, and yet strangely comforting to pretend that people could not see me if I did not see them.

Soon I was chilled to the bone. The thin, old shawl did not suffice to ward off the cold that seeped through my clothing, and all I could do was curl up on my spot and try to ignore the chattering of my teeth. I knew my resolve would not last long; the cold was a treacherous enemy, warding off sleep and rest, weakening the mind. I only had to hold on long enough, until the battle started. Then, perhaps, the sounds of screaming and of immediate danger outside those doors would keep my mind off the numbness in my extremities.

But no echo of battle disturbed the cavern. The refugees around me settled down, and soon a heavy silence fell on the Caves; a silence full of waiting and silent prayers for mercy.

_Béma, what are they waiting for?_

Suddenly something heavy came to rest on my shoulders, wrapping me in warmth, and I looked up to see Elswide couching beside me. She seemed as surprised as I was, and I guessed she had not recognized me in the poor soul about to freeze to death. There was a moment of awkward silence between us; then I tried to speak.

"Th-thank y-you," I stammered.

"It's nothing."

She seemed to hesitate, and finally stood up. I expected her to leave; but she only went to retrieve her own possessions, and came back to sit beside me, wrapping herself in another blanket. I felt warmer now, the chattering in my teeth subsiding, and I huddled closer to her. Without a word she did the same, and as I unwrapped the blanket to re-wrap it around us both she imitated me. We sat in companionable silence, neither of us willing to remember what harsh words had been spoken during our last conversation. And I was happy to have a friend by my side. For words were only that – empty sounds, compared to the death looming above the heads of everyone in the hold.

Suddenly the silence of the cavern was shattered by a distant crash, like thousands and thousands of iron fists crashing against iron shields in challenge. The echo died, and then another impact rumbled down the caverns.

The enemy was finally here.

* * *

"I am scared."

Elswide's whisper had roused me from the light slumber I had begun to fall into. I blinked and huddled closer to her, offering what comfort I could provide by my presence.

I did not want to die. But as the clash of steel against steel drew closer to the doors and echoed in a more pressing way with each minute that passed, I mused that it may happen sooner than I had thought. For all my cunning and all my stealth, I was unable to evade a blade directed at me; and even if I managed to escape deeper into the caverns should the doors break, I would not last long in the cold darkness; being killed even seemed preferable to such a slow end.

I had heard that death offered a respite, a rest that many sought when they became weary of life or suffering. To fade into nothingness, to fall asleep forever… That did not frighten me. Whether I disappeared now or years later, the world would still go on without me. I only feared the pain, when the blade would cut through flesh and sinew, ripping organs apart, destroying, crushing…

"Me too," I whispered, pulling Elswide closer.

Hours seemed to shuffle by with infinite slowness, like a mourner by the bed of a dying man; cloaked in darkness, all alike in face. I felt them pass us by, whispering words of defeat. Outside the battle raged, crashing against the walls of the cavern, as if the swords and the spears could wear the stone away and reveal us to our enemies.

I slumbered a little, Elswide sleeping with her head on my shoulder. I realized that not only did she fear for her own life, but also for that of her husband. Ceolwulf was somewhere out there, in the chaos of the battle; and she could only imagine what could be happening to him.

And Legolas… Where was he? Was he still standing, his bow drawn and the last arrow notched, choosing the best target before he was overcome? Or was he wounded, fighting the Uruks with the little strength he had left, feeling in horror as his muscles gave up before he could drag himself back to safety? Was he dead, empty eyes watching the night sky before other corpses piled up on him? My heart despaired at the thought, and yet reason denied me hope.

We would all die someday, but Legolas deserved better than a mass grave. Each time I thought of him, my mind conjured the picture of a being both ancient and young, wise and full of quick wit, almost too luminous and perfect for the world I had been accustomed to. He deserved to live out all of the years of his long life, not a nameless death; and so much more. I wanted him to be happy... Because I cared. There was no denying it. No mere fascination of a mortal for a First-born made my heart beat so, no simple curiosity made me hope he would find me once again. I loved him, all the while knowing that it could only lead to pain.

A crash against the doors made us jump in surprise; Elswide squeaked in fear, clutching the blanket, and I froze. Had the final hour come? I was not ready! Suddenly the prospect of death, even painless and quick, made me reel with horror. To disappear, leaving but a memory – and even this would fade quickly, given my choices – seemed too immense, too crushing a concept to grasp. I understood why Legolas had pressed me to keep the ring. More than a simple reminder, it was a part of him that would exist on after himself had passed away.

A shuffle on the other side triggered a wave of worried whispers through the caverns, refugees springing to their feet in indecision. Should we flee, taking the risk of a long and dark journey through the caverns to the other side? Or should we wait for a certain sign that all hope was lost? But then it would be too late, surely? I rose to my feet, pulling Elswide up.

"Come," I whispered. "Come on, we must leave."

"No!" she muttered, her eyes trained on the door. "Ceolwulf is out there, I must wait…"

"You must save yourself!" I hissed, gathering my things and thinking only of keeping my promise to Legolas. As much as I loved Elswide, his memory was more precious to my heart; I had given my word, and intended to keep it. But I had first to cross the mountains and reach the relative safety of the other side. And where one would certainly get lost and die, two could succeed. "If he… if he lives, you will meet him in Edoras again."

The doors slammed open, and silhouettes poured in; they were Rohan soldiers, but their golden hair was matted with blood, and their faces grim. Steel sang as they pushed the Uruks away from the doors, crushing them between the heavy panes as they closed them again.

"Run!" one of them yelled as he turned towards the crowd. "By order of the King, run for your lives! The hold is taken!"

And so we fled. The young led the old, and carried the babes and children too small to make their way safely down the treacherous path. Yet the journey beneath the mountains was surprisingly uneventful, considering the Uruks that could be tailing us through in the darkness. Each step echoed down the caverns, each whisper turned into a menacing hiss, and the torchlights transformed our shadows into monsters, creeping along the walls and waiting for a moment of inattention. Many a time did I feel my foot slip, many a time did I find myself facing a pool of black water; one more step, and I would disappear in the cold abyss, the slippery walls swallowing me forever.

I walked, examining the ground before each step to take my mind off the possibilities. If the Hornburg had been taken, then I and those with me were certainly kingless, and for many a woman, a widow. What future awaited us on the other side but poverty and danger? What land would offer refuge to a horde of dirty, famished refugees? Gondor? From what I had gathered, the land was not much better off; first in sight for the Eye of Sauron, it had been subjected to his attacks more even that Rohan. Surely it had its share of beggars and widows with no desire to welcome more.

As for me, I knew where my own road lay: towards Mirkwood and its throne, to bear a grieving father ill news of his son. My own heart bled at the thought of Legolas' death, but that the king would never know. For what comfort could another's pain be compared to the loss of a son?

Legolas, dead… It seemed as though the caves around me grew darker at the realization, and the world lost some of its light. Somehow, it had been changed by this one disappearance; but the people would never realize it. For many, the sun would still shine as bright as before, and the spring would blossom into summer regardless of this loss. But for me, the very air seemed to have acquired a taste of ash.


	11. A Night For The Daring

\- Chapter 11 / A Night For The Daring -

It had been several days since I had returned to Edoras, prompted by Elswide who knew nothing of my project to travel to Mirkwood, bearing what I had then thought to be news of death. Too empty and shocked to feel grief, I had obeyed her gentle urging. The city was still they way we had left it: untouched by war, which had finally triggered the anger I had carried in me since the grim news. I had seen enough of war-waging and carnage; I was leaving. And so it was halfway through Edoras that I had seen him ride into the city, all golden splendour and hero's glory, at the King's side.

Alive! Deaf to the shouts of joy of the crowd I had stood frozen, dissecting the vision and fearing it might be naught but a dream born from my wishful thinking. But no; Legolas lived, Aragorn and Théoden King as well. They had returned victorious from a battle in which fate had switched favourites at the very last moment. And all my hopes had risen from their ashes.

He had even smiled at me as he rode by, adored and admired by the crowd, a living symbol of those ancient and glorious times where our two races were friends and comrades in arms rather than occasional allies; and I, shaking in shock, had only stared back like a mare about to be put down. Thinking back about those instants, I wished my wits had not abandoned me so at the mercy of his charm, in so vexing and strange a situation.

Legolas had then noticed my attire and frowned, turning his head to look at me again, but I would not deceive my heart by thinking it was because of any beauty I then possessed. My clothes were simple and fit for a journey, a bag of provisions at my side; and I knew he must have wondered at my destination. Or perhaps not… I had remained in Edoras, but had not seen Legolas since that day. He had not come asking after me, and the possibility that the prospect of me leaving left him indifferent hurt in ways I could compare to no other pain I had ever felt.

* * *

I glared at the mirror and, from behind the polished metallic surface, the image glared back. _Not good enough_ , I thought as I straightened my dress with trembling hands. I would never be good enough, for it had fate's decision and not mine to bring me into this world with mortal blood instead of elven. And never before had I resented this, until now.

Willing the tremors of nervousness away, I stepped back to get a better and maybe more objective look at the result. Truth to be told, I was rather satisfied with my appearance: the dress lent by Elswide complimented my figure, but not in a way that would flatter my curves more than my modesty. Besides, said curves were yet to be regained, for dire times had left me with more bone than flesh. No jewels, save for the signet ring I had yet to return to Legolas' possession. Pale, frightened eyes stared back at me as I reached my face. They would betray me, if my hands did not…

Cursed be this feeling in the pit of my stomach, this nervousness born out of nowhere that darkened the moments that should have been carefree! And cursed be my desire to seek out a man whom I should not be thinking of. Legolas would not, _could_ not be interested in anything I had to offer – at this was so little! So spoke my reason. But my heart, the shrivelled up thing that still beat in my chest despite all my efforts to smother its voice, reminded me of all the times where _he_ had sought me out of his own free will. Tonight was a night for celebration, a night for the young and the daring. For once, I would go find him… And come what may.

I turned away from the ghostly image, breaking the line of thought, and walked out; instantly, light and laughter and the distant sounds of music assaulted my senses. The corridors and hallways of the palace were full of people drinking, talking, laughing and generally celebrating the feeling of still being alive. I carefully pushed my way past them, ignoring calls from groups of men and the occasional bolder touches intended to draw me into their arms for the evening. I could walk freely now amongst them; no longer did I have to hunch my back and force my voice, no more did I fear their eyes. The dark times were over.

"Morwrei!"

I turned around at Elswide's call, smiling back at my beaming friend.

"Come!" she motioned me to her table. "Sit with us!"

I obeyed and settled into a chair beside her, then took the time to look around. The Great Hall of Meduseld shone golden, tonight. Torches and fires burned all around, illuminating the gold-painted columns and ceilings and casting fantastic shadows on the walls. A group of musicians played a cheery tune, fiddles and lutes inviting to the dance; and dance people did. Drinkers and dancers mixed between the tables laden with food and ale, swaying in joy or drunken haze.

Elswide pushed a cup towards me. "Drink!" she laughed, watching my fascination with our festive surroundings. And she downed a goblet of her own. To her other side, Ceolwulf imitated her, his eyes already glassy; and for an instant, my heart constricted in my chest at the realisation that the feast would not end well for everyone. But I also knew that Elswide would not listen to my warnings, no more than she ever had in the past.

Someone pushed me from behind; just a drunkard, but the unexpected touch had made me stiffen in alert. Suddenly the crowd gathered around me did not seem so unthreatening, eyes turned in my direction felt fixed on me. Willing my muscles to relax and my mind to wander to a more pleasant subject, I brought the cup to my lips, but the ale tasted bitter in my mouth. No, I had been wrong. Nothing had changed, for me. I still saw the evil in people rather than the good.

A flash of pale gold drew my attention. People moved in my line of vision, and the lights of the fires played tricks on their blond locks, but I had been certain of what I had seen. And indeed, a moment later, I spotted Legolas as he headed towards the main doors; his hands were empty.

"Excuse me," I breathed out and sprang from my seat, grabbing a full cup as I left the table and sloshing half of its contents on my hand in the process. But there was no time to lose. A night for the daring…

"Leaving already, Master Elf?" I called out as I neared him.

Legolas turned around. He had changed for the occasion as well, and his dark green tunic brought out his striking eyes even more; for an instant, I stared at him in wonder.

"Morwrei." He smiled and looked me up and down. "You look beautiful tonight."

There was no greedy spark in his eyes, none of that leery sweetness that most men put into their compliments in his voice, no disguised meaning. I could _feel_ that he was sincere, and it made my heartbeat race. But before I could reply he started to turn away, dismissing me with a curt nod.

"You truly are leaving," I blurted out; and as he looked at me once more, raising an eyebrow in surprise, I could not help but whisper. "Why? Will you not stay for the feast?"

Legolas closed his eyes briefly. "I cannot find cheer in my heart tonight," he replied quietly. "So many have fallen…" He seemed to hesitate as he looked around. "We elves treasure life above everything else," he murmured. "Every death is a tragedy, and is mourned, and here…" He motioned to the happy, dancing crowd and shook his head.

"I will go stand watch," he said eventually. "The stars will soothe my pain."

"Oh," I managed to squeak out and tried to hide my disappointment. What else was there to say? Maybe he truly was appalled at our mortal ways of dealing with death, and specifically of thinking that the living deserved our attention more. Or maybe it had been meant as a gentle rebuke, a way to spare my pride. But in any case there was nothing I could reply.

I nodded numbly, feeling the heat of a blush touch my cheeks. Shame and disappointment burned inside my chest. Truly I had been beyond foolish to attempt such a clumsy, ridiculously forward approach. And unless the single cup of ale I had drunk had been spiked, I could not even blame the alcohol for my rash move.

"Is this for me?"

I looked up reluctantly. Though I always longed to see his face, I feared the condescending kindness I would read in his eyes. But Legolas was looking at the goblet of ale that I was still clutching. I nodded slowly, holding the cup closer as though I could pull it into my body and thus make this reminder of my foolishness disappear.

I saw his hand reach out to take the cup from my trembling fingers, and looked up to watch him raise it to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine as he drank the contents. They seemed darker all of a sudden, bewitching and dangerous. Then he handed me the goblet back. I lowered my gaze as I accepted it, and froze when his hand touched my cheek and pushed my chin up so that I was facing him again.

"Morwrei…"

His thumb caressed my cheek, and I felt my knees go weak. He could not know not what sensations he was stirring with this simple gesture, what emotions he awoke in me with his stare, and I both loved what he was doing and hated him for it. I knew that when his hand would leave my skin, it would feel like being robbed of the air I was breathing. But please, please Béma, let him continue… I leaned into his hand, seeking to extend the contact, and he did not withdraw it.

My eyes widened in shock. I could not imagine him teasing me for cruel pleasure, watching me open up under his touch only to rip it away forever. But then…?

Legolas smiled. "Tomorrow," he said quietly. "Tomorrow I will find you again."

The he pulled away, but the warmth of his hand lingered on my skin. And though I shivered with cold as it faded, I was grinning. This moment, this touch, I would not have exchanged them for all the distraction and joy the celebration could offer. And while the world outside was still dark, while the armies of evil still marched to crush the free people of these lands, I had hope again.

* * *

I woke up with the screams and the thunder of feet running down the corridor. Hurriedly crawling out of my bed and grabbing for my shawl I wondered whether the city was under attack again. If yes, I needed to prepare quickly and run. For all the glory of our recent victory I was not deceived: thick, stone walls had helped us tremendously, and here all that shielded us from the attackers was made of wood. And wood, as I remembered too well from my past, could burn.

I ran to the door and, leaning against the wall, cracked it open, so that only a ray of light fell into the room and I could see what was happening. A group of guards ran down the corridor, their armours clanking loudly; then they disappeared behind the corner and, save for the vanishing racket, all became silent again. I frowned. Though their direction was the Great Hall, I could hear no alarm bells, no cries of alert and no clashing of steel, and I came to the conclusion that I had been wrong. This was no attack, though something was truly amiss.

I hesitated. Being informed of what was happening had saved my life several times in the past. But now I had no disguise to protect me. If there truly were enemies in the palace, it would not be a mere beating that I would get.

In the meantime more doors had opened, and several other maids peeked into the corridor. Just like me they were only wearing their night-dresses and clutching shawls and blankets around their shoulders.

"What happened?" asked Freida, one of the younger kitchen aids. "Are we under attack?"

Her last words were picked up by the worried voices in the rooms around us, whispers echoing down the passage: _we are under attack!_ I rolled my eyes at such credulity. It was thus that armies were defeated and kingdoms brought to their knees. Panic would corrode the spirits from the inside, breaking resolves and breathing fear into the hearts of soldiers. It was certain defeat, as good as if they turned their own blades against themselves.

"No, we are not," I snapped. "No sounds of battle, no screams, no running. No attack."

"B-but maybe _we_ should be running?" muttered another woman.

Suddenly I heard footsteps approaching and, forsaking all caution, stuck my head outside. It was Théoden King, his guards walking a few steps behind; along came Aragorn, the dwarf Gimli, and Legolas. I met his gaze, knowing that he would warn me should there be danger. He knew I would not break down at bad news.

He nodded at Aragorn then broke his stride, pausing to lean towards me.

"Go back to your bed," he whispered. "And tell the others to do the same."

His eyes were serious, and I understood that even though not immediate, a threat still loomed above our heads. But I trusted him to warn me in time. I nodded and watched him turn away to catch up with the King. And as I ushered the other maids back to their chambers, I understood that any promises given had to be put aside. Once again war had decided for us and, lest we wanted to trip and fall, we had to follow.


	12. Patience

\- Chapter 12 / Patience -

I was finding it ironic, really, that it should be during the brief respite granted by a victory that I should find myself facing a blade directed at my heart. I took a step back, watching its wielder warily.

"Now you listen to me," said Alfreda, pointing her kitchen knife in my direction to emphasise her point. "That elf, he is no good for you."

I scowled, displeased that something as private as our friendship should become a subject of gossip. It was still so tentative and fragile, as though a mere thought could blow it out like the flame of a candle. And yet, for all its uncertainty, I valued it more than anything.

I glared back at Alfreda. "And who is?" I snapped. "Some drunk, like Ceolwulf, who will beat me senseless, or a vicious bastard of Osred's kind? For that is all that this war has left us with, Alfreda. All the good men are dead. Besides," I added after a moment of thought, "there is nothing between us."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so certain about that," my friend grumbled. "I've seen the looks he gives you, you know."

 _He does?_ I bit back the question, loath to reveal my feelings about Legolas. There was no need for another dirty rumour, especially one that concerned him. Instead I composed myself a sardonic smile.

"Oh, does he now? With all that looking, I am surprised that he even finds the time to fight off the orcs, then…"

It was Alfreda's turn to scowl. "I am warning you, that's all," she mumbled. "He's not for you."

"And I will not make it my goal to prove you wrong," I retorted calmly; but her words had struck true.

Ever since that night, the times when I had seen Legolas had been rare and brief. No more had he sought me out to talk, no more had he smiled at me across the hall. In the scarce occasions when I had managed to steal a glance of him I could tell he was busy and preoccupied, entirely focused on whatever he and Aragorn were planning. I missed his presence, but did not fool myself either. War changed everything, for the worse or, in my case, for the better. He had come to me in dark times, but peace would change it all. Surely what comfort my company could provide could not compare to the call of his home. He would leave someday, I knew that. _When_ was the only question.

* * *

"Aargh!" I cried out as the icy water splashed from the bucket and onto my feet.

Resisting the urge to chuck the bucket into the well as revenge, I set it down and took a deep breath. The air smelled of spring and of the sun that had yet to show itself. It carried the fragrance of the simbelmynë that grew on the mounds of the kings of old, and my already foul mood grew melancholic. Amongst all the difficult days of my life, these last ones had been the darkest. Victory had been snatched from Saruman, but rumours went that it had only been a skirmish in the face of a greater war. Messengers brought news of armies marching north, of banners embroidered with the symbol of an eye, and of destruction. But our own armies remained stationed in our cities, our blades in their sheaths. And amongst the people, impatience grew.

It was yet to be decided whether we would ride off to face the enemy far from our homeland, or whether we would leave the other lands to their fate, as they had done when Rohan was in need. The uncertainty was like some strange state of existence between life and death. We feared to fully enjoy what pleasures life provided for fear to lose them again should Théoden King decide to help Gondor against the attack; but precautions had to be taken in case he would not, and so we worked, lived and breathed, but our hearts were not truly here.

As for mine, it ached dully with each day that passed without a sign from Legolas, but I dared not go find him. Maybe whatever had happened that night had offered him a long-awaited excuse to step away from a mortal he had grown attached to, and thus to protect his heart and his life? Maybe said mortal was expecting something he could not give? Maybe she had seen something that had never been but a fantasy?

None of these possibilities could be excluded, no matter how I wished my dreams to come true. I refused to cling to Legolas like I had seen many a simpering maid do, insulting his pride and my own. I would not humiliate myself by dogging his steps and coming up with ridiculous excuses to speak to him. I was determined to keep my head high through either victory or loss. But the ring on my finger remained an uncertain sign, either to be returned or kept; and though it gave me a legitimate reason to seek out Legolas once and for all, I dared not in case he chose to have it back, and took away this last proof of our friendship.

I shook my head, as if to strengthen my resolve in this state of mind. Lifting the bucket again I started to make my way back to the palace, where Alfreda and Rowena awaited the water to prepare the midday meal. It was heavy, pulling on my arm muscles and pinching the skin of my palms, and I cursed as I dragged it down the path, sloshing water everywhere.

"Here, let me help," came a voice.

Strong hands took the handle and lifted the bucket as though it weighed nothing. I looked up to find myself facing Aragorn.

"Morwrei, if I am not mistaken?" he said, smiling.

"No, my Lord… I mean yes." I curtsied. "It is I."

He nodded and started walking towards the palace, carrying the bucket full of water for me.

"Legolas speaks… highly of you." He turned his head to watch my reaction, and I reined it any emotion that his words could have triggered, wondering what word he had deliberately avoided.

"Does he, my Lord," I said in an even voice.

Aragorn grinned. "No need to pretend around me, Morwrei. You and he seem to keep tiptoeing around each other, but I know what I see." He sighed. "Legolas is a complicated being, and he is an elf – that word alone defines his behaviour. You will have to be patient… and very determined." He glanced back at me and laughed. "Although I am certain that last advice is quite vain. You seem to be a woman of iron will, Morwrei."

I bit my lip. Many emotions had been awakened by his words, many hopes rekindled. But they were mine to keep, until come true or proven wrong.

"Thank you for the advice, my Lord," I said quietly. "And for your help."

"My pleasure." He set the bucket down. Then he looked towards the mountains and frowned. "The beacons," he murmured.

I turned around as well and, searching the snow-covered peaks, finally saw it. Nested between two ridges there was a small fire flickering in the distance; a lone signal in the middle of the eternal snows, reverberating a call for help through miles and miles of land.

"The beacons!" Aragorn shouted and turned on his heels to run into the palace, climbing the stone steps two by two. "The beacons are lit!"

 _Gondor calls for aid_.

Now there was no doubt left that the Rohirrim would assemble for another battle; Théoden King would not leave a cry for help without reply. It would be far from our home, on the battlefield of another land that the fate of Middle-earth would be sealed. Our men would ride to see it done, leaving Edoras to the women. The King himself would lead the army, Aragorn by his side… Legolas would follow; and if he fell, the news would never reach me.

But the spark of hope kindled by Aragorn's words refused to die, and I found myself racing to the kitchens, the bucket forgotten on the ground.

"Alfreda!" I breathed out as soon as I passed the door. "I need you to lend me your horse."

* * *

I pulled on the leather strap, checking that the saddle was firmly fixed on Sleipnir's back while he lazily chewed on his bit, unconcerned by my feverish preparations. Opening a saddlebag, I began stuffing it with provisions gathered in the kitchen under Alfreda's disapproving stare, and the warmest items of clothing I possessed. Dunharrow lay high in the mountains, and the air was much colder there as in Edoras, even in the summer.

A rustle in my back alerted me of a presence and, as I looked up, I met Legolas' all too familiar eyes.

"What are you doing?" he said softly, a shoulder propped against a pillar.

I felt my heartbeat quicken under his stare.

"Preparing," I replied, trying to keep my voice even.

"And where are you going?" He was looking straight into my eyes, as if he tried to read my intentions, and I lowered my gaze. My hands began to shake with the effort of pretending I was not affected by his presence, and I squeezed the leather straps of the bag until my knuckled whitened. I did not want him to see how much I craved his attention and his touch; he was free to guess my feelings, or discover them by showing his own.

"I will be riding with some of the women to Dunharrow," I replied in what I hoped was a detached tone. "It is a tradition in our country, for the women to wish the men farewell as they leave for battle."

Legolas cocked an eyebrow. "And you, whom will you be saying your goodbyes to?"

He seemed so calm, so unconcerned, that I felt jealous of his self-control. How unfair that he should remain so unfazed while I ached, struggling not to let a confession of my love spill from my lips. Was it only a perfect mask, obtained through endless practice? Or did he truly feel nothing after all?

"Someone dear to me," I whispered. "Although he does not know it."

It had not been subtle or wise; but the disappointment that had risen in my chest at his apparent indifference had pried the words from my mouth. I resumed my work, checking the state of the saddle in order to take my mind off this bitterness, until I felt a hand lay on mine, imprisoning it in a gentle yet firm grip.

"He knows," Legolas whispered. " _I_ know."

He pulled my hand to his chest; I could feel the heat emanating from his body through my dress as he drew closer, almost pinning me against Sleipnir. His eyes were dark, like the night when he had drank from my cup.

"I know how you feel," he said quietly. "But you are mortal, Morwrei, and I… I am an elf."

I looked away at his words, knowing too well how true they were. I had chased a dream and caught naught but air, and offered my heart to a shadow of my own free will. But until then I had clung to mad hope that some miracle could change the way of the world and alter our natures, offering us a future. I had admitted the reality long ago; accepting it was another matter.

I nodded, crushed by that realisation.

"And yet, the world is changing so fast… What importance will it have tomorrow? What importance does it have tonight?"

I looked up in disbelief to see Legolas smile sadly.

"I cannot deny that I have desired…" He shook his head, as though to rid his mind of an unwelcome thought. "Your place is not there, Morwrei, amongst those condemned to die. You burn too bright for their company. Stay here…" he whispered. "Stay safe. And if this is indeed your wish, you have my word that if I am still alive when it is all over, I will find you again. And then, if your heart has not been swayed by time or logic, I will seek out your company, as a man courting a woman. But if you find someone closer to your heart…" He smiled again. "Know that I ask no promises of you."

I had to grab the saddle to steady myself when he pulled away; my knees were weak, my hands trembling, and I thought my heart should have escaped its cage long ago, so fast it was beating in my chest.

"I will wait," I whispered hoarsely, barely believing what he had just said. What a cruel dream it would be, if I woke now in my bed!

"No promises," he shook his head and, upon reaching the doorway, turned around. "Goodbye, Morwrei. And may this not be our last."


	13. Epilogue

\- Chapter 13 / Epilogue -

_July 3021_

The stars shone coldly high above, almost unnaturally bright in the clear sky. I knew none of their names, nor cared for them; but I remembered someone who used to seek out their advice, and find comfort in their distant light. _Where is he now?_ I wondered. _Why has he not come?_

I had been waiting for a long time. Where had my proverbial patience gone, my faith in my own resilience of temper? They had vanished, long since worn out by the wait, by the countless days of gazing to the horizon in hopes of seeing a lone rider hurrying towards Edoras to fulfil a promise. Legolas was alive, I knew it. Those of our soldiers who had taken part in the Morannon battle had recounted with awe his numerous kills and his safe return to Minas Tirith with Gimli. A month had passed, then another, and another, and still I kept coming to my solitary vantage point to gaze to the horizon like a lovestruck fool.

Now I walked through the night, a lone silhouette in the firelight that poured from the windows and the wide open doors of the palace. To an onlooker I would have seemed just another merrymaker seeking some fresh air before diving back into the celebration – a respite between a mug of ale and a song, perhaps. But I was much more – and much less – than that.

The sound of my quiet steps on stone, the cold air and the immense silence of the plains cleared my mind of any ordinary, restless thoughts, and brought back shards of memories, instants that could have been but never blossomed into anything more than promises. Voices whispered in the night, stars shone with the light of disincarnate eyes. The images and sensations filled my head, never leaving a place for the bright colours and sounds of the feast; nor did my heart want to open a door to all that rejoicing. What I carried within me was much more precious, and at the same time much more insubstantial. It was my past that I held close between hands curled together to protect it, like a butterfly or a candle so swift to be swept away by the wind. It was the gathering of revolved moments that I preferred to the living, breathing people on the other side of the wall.

I had been sad, and I had been bitter in my disappointment, watching other couples and happy maids with a cynical eye, thinking that they, too, would know my pain someday. I had prowled the shadows, like before, but now wearing my bitterness as a banner rather than rags, like one of those never-wed, foul-tempered old hags that I used to mock in my younger years.

I knew I was doing myself no service. My friends had long abandoned their attempts to make me finally release what belonged to the past and stop waiting. I ate, slept and worked just like before – my days were therefore not in danger, and they eventually stopped worrying so much. It will pass, they would say, and I knew they were right. This had perhaps been the most painful thing to realize – that for all my love for Legolas, my inconstant, mortal heart would eventually overcome my desire to remember in its will to heal. Already the memories faded, and where I once had carried the brightness of Legolas' smile in all its glory, his shining eyes and blinding grace, now simply dwelt the memory of something heart-warming and beautiful.

Though the night was by no means cold, I wrapped my arms around me, listening for a while to the boisterous life raging so close to me, so striking in its intensity in comparison to the silence of the plains. Somewhere in the distance, the thumping of horse's hooves neared the city, though the rider had still some distance to cover. I spared a thought for the poor man - no doubt a messenger of yet another Marshall or distant King sent to congratulate Éomer King on his wedding day. Such envoys had been riding in and out of Edoras all day long; a journey under the merciless, summer sun could not have been a pleasure, and I hoped he would find more than carcasses and empty kegs upon his arrival. He, too, deserved to celebrate.

Suddenly I longed to be out there, to ride under the might sky alone, to face and embrace the welcoming immensity of the fields of grass. I desired the freedom, the oblivion brought by such a run – and it had been months since I had yearned to be free from everything, forging my own chains day after day. In the darkness of the night, I smiled. Yes, I was healing – slowly but surely, and against my will. In a way it felt like a betrayal, to let go of my love in this way; but life was stronger, and my heart sought to close those scars left by Legolas' words and touches.

The gates creaked, greetings exchanged in a hurry between guards and messenger, and soon the clip-clop of hooves on the stones of the road died away. I noticed that the feast was nearing to an end – the music had grown nostalgic, the shouts for more ale had made themselves scarce. Soon the Hall would empty, the crowd of merrymakers leaving behind them a field of desolation and a foul stench.

Soon I, too, would retreat to rest and, though I felt no tiredness, I knew I would sleep well. I had found some peace at last, in realizing that not all in me had died with Legolas' desertion. And I rejoiced when I understood that I harboured no ill feelings against him, only the fondest of memories and the hope he would be well and happy.

Footsteps shuffled on stone as someone walked out of the Hall. I sighed, loath to encounter some over-merry drunkard in want of company, or worse – someone like Osred or Ceolwulf, whom inebriation rendered cruel and deaf to supplication. I stepped back into the shadows, hoping that ale and the darkness would play in my favour and lead the unwelcome wanderer past my hiding spot. And, as the sound died away, I breathed with relief.

"I see you have not changed your habits," whispered a voice into my ear.

I shrieked, lunging away and almost running into the stone wall, but a pair of strong arms caught me, pulling me into the moonlight.

"Let me go!" I hissed, wrenching my arms free from his grasp; and as I turned around, seething, I was met by a pair of wide blue eyes. The shadows had grown darker inside their depths, the lines on his ageless face etched just a little deeper; but still I recognized him at once with all my being. From my heart to the very tips of my fingers, everything in me yearned to touch him and be proven that he was real.

"Morwrei… I would never hurt you." His voice was a whisper; he was standing before me, an arm's reach away; but he made no move to close that distance.

 _Liar! Where were you when I withered away, waiting?_ The thought crossed my mind like a flash of lightening. Laying a hand on my chest, I felt the wild hammering of my heart, like a bird throwing itself over and over again against the bars of its cage. I would have expected it to beat with joy upon out reunion; but I was still shaking with fright.

I gaped at him. "Legolas?! What… What are you doing here?" The words spilled from my lips before I could stop them.

He frowned, and the ghost of a smile that had been playing on his lips vanished. "Had I not given you my word?" he said softly. "Or have you lost your faith in me?"

"I…"

I bit my lip. Why was I not overjoyed, as I should have been? Where was that sweet emotion that I used to awaken within me at the mere thought of seeing him standing before me once again? Legolas had returned, true to his word; he had come back for me, and for me only. But all I found was confusion and fear. I could feel the all too familiar pull towards him, the chaos in my mind where peace had reigned but moments away.

Just an instant earlier I had been free. No ties had held me back in my past, no memories tugged at my heartstrings. I had surrendered that which I had held so dear, letting it slip away in a breath of relief… And fate had washed it all back to my feet; taunting, tempting.

I did not want to ache again.

"It has been months," I said, my voice breaking. "I had thought you had changed your mind."

Even under the meagre light of the moon I saw his jaw tighten.

"I gave you my word," he repeated sadly. "I gave you my heart, Morwrei, left it in your keeping. And you thought I had forgotten it here?"

His words struck true, and yet I felt anger well up in my chest. Had he expected me to lay my life aside, to fold my hands in my lap and wait patiently until he returned?

"You asked for no promises," I replied.

A silver eyebrow rose. "And yet you promised," he reminded me. "What has changed, Morwrei? Why are we strangers now?"

I hung my head. Cold, bitter grief was swelling in my chest, crushing my heart. Why could I find no words to tell him how devotedly I had waited? Why could I not say how I had loved him – and loved him still, how the mere sight of him standing there had awoken all those unspeakable, silly dreams? Too long had I dreamt of this moment, and too glorious had I painted it in my mind. But now that all was over and the victorious had returned home, all that was left was two broken, bitter souls.

I could see the expectation that had held his stance so proud crumbling. Suddenly he seemed old, and so very lonely. His eyes were hungry, his face thinner and more stern than I remembered. War had been kind to neither of us.

"I do not know. Perhaps that is what we always were," I whispered through the tears that spilled from my eyes.

In that moment, I would have given everything I had ever possessed and relived whatever pain I had ever felt to have him reach out and close the abyss that was growing between us. The dying noise of the feast seemed to mock us, laughing at our shattered dreams.

"Do you want me to leave?" he muttered. "One word from you and I will never bother you again." His face twisted into a mask of agony. "I will do anything. Do not think about me, think about you. Anything… I do not want you to cry."

"I want you to stay." I was reaching out to pick up the pieces, careless about cutting myself in the process. Hesitantly I took a step towards him, then another, until I could feel his warmth on my skin. "I want you to come back to me as you promised. I want you to love me as I love you." I reached out and touched his face with my fingertips. "Come back to me, Legolas."

I welcomed his embrace, linking my arms behind his back and pulling him closer, squeezing until I was certain I had hurt him and tried to let go; but he only held me tighter, breathing into my hair, his heartbeat slowing against my cheek.

"I have come for you," he whispered, his breath tickling my ear.

Letting the fabric soak up my tears of joy, I replied into his tunic: "I knew you would."

_The End_


End file.
